LIGHTNING 
CONDUCTOR 


G.-N.     c£>     A.    M 
"WILLIAMSON 


*" 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 


GIFT  OF 

Mrs*  Marion  Randall  Parsons 


"WHY,  BROWN,  IS  THAT  YOUf"   SHE  QUAVERED.  — Page  76 


THE 

LIGHTNING    CONDUCTOR 

THE  STRANGE  ADVENTURES  OF  A  MOTOR-CAR 


EDITED  BY 

C  N.  and  A.  M.  WILLIAMSON 

Authors  of"-  The  Princess  Passes" 


REVISED,    ENLARGED 
AND    ILLUSTRATED 


NEW  YORK 

HENRY  HOLT   AND   COMPANY 
1905 


Copyright,  1903,  1905. 

sy 
HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 

Twentieth  Impression 


ROBERT  DRUMMOND,    PRINTER,  NBW   YORK 


GIFT 


MMtJ 


TO  THE  REAL  MONTIE 


MS16S17 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 

"WHY,  BROWN,  IS   THAT  YOU?"    SHE   QUAVERED.  .Frontispiece 

"WE   ATE   AT   A   LOVELY    ENGLISH    INN" 15 

"THE   LONG  LEVEL  ROAD  TO   ORLEANS" 43 

THE   CHAPEL   OP   THE   CHATEAU   OF   AMBOISE 98 

"AUNT   MARY   KODAKED   ME" 121 

THE  GRANDE   PLACE,   BIARRITZ 136 

"DARK-FACED   PEASANTS   PERCHED   ON   STILTS" 143 

"THE   DISTANT  PYRENEES" 182 

"A  GREAT  ASSEMBLAGE  OF  TOWERS,  WALLS,  AND  BAT 
TLEMENTS" 201 

BORDIGHERA 245 

MENTONE  FROM   CAP  MARTIN 265 

THE   PUBLIC  GARDENS  AT  MENTONE 260 

"RAPALLO,   THE   MOST  BEAUTIFUL  OF  ALL" 279 

CAPRI 292 

"I   SAT   ON   THE^WALL   OF   A   TERRACE" 298 

"THE  GARDENS  OF  THE  VILLA  IGIEA" 304 

"THE  GEM  OF  ALL  IS  THE  ANCIENT  GREEK  THEATRE"..   3ig 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 

"WHY,  BROWN.  IS  THAT  YOU?"    SHE  QUAVERED.  .Frontispiece 

"WE  ATE   AT  A   LOVELY    ENGLISH   INN" 15 

"THE   LONG   LEVEL   ROAD  TO   ORLEANS" 43 

THE   CHAPEL   OP   THE   CHATEAU   OF   AMBOISE 98 

"AUNT   MARY   KODAKED   ME" 121 

THE  GRANDE    PLACE,   BIARRITZ 136 

"DARK-FACED   PEASANTS  PERCHED   ON   STILTS" 143 

"THE   DISTANT  PYRENEES" 182 

"A  GREAT  ASSEMBLAGE  OF  TOWERS,  WALLS,  AND  BAT 
TLEMENTS" 201 

BORDIGHERA 245 

MENTONE  FROM   CAP  MARTIN 265 

THE   PUBLIC   GARDENS   AT   MENTONE 260 

"RAPALLO,  THE   MOST  BEAUTIFUL  OF  ALL" 279 

CAPRI 292 

"I   SAT   ON   THE, WALL   OF   A   TERRACE" 298 

"THE  GARDENS  OF  THE  VILLA  IGIEA" 304 

"THE  GEM  OF  ALL  IS  THE  ANCIENT  GREEK  THEATRE"..  319 


THE    LIGHTNING    CONDUCTOR 

MOLLY  RANDOLPH  TO  HER  FATHER 

IN  THE  OAK  ROOM,  THE  " WHITE  LION," 

COBHAM,  SURREY,  November  12. 

Dear  Shiny-headed  Angel, 

I  hope  you  won't  mind,  but  I've  changed  all 
my  plans.  I've  bought  an  automobile,  or  a  motor 
car,  as  they  call  it  over  here;  and  while  I'm  writing 
to  you,  Aunt  Mary  is  having  nervous  prostration  on 
a  sofa  in  a  corner  at  least  a  hundred  years  old — I 
mean  the  sofa,  not  the  corner,  which  is  a  good  deal 
more.  But  perhaps  I'd  better  explain. 

Well,  to  begin  with,  some  people  we  met  on  the 
steamer  (they  were  an  archdeacon,  with  charming 
silk  legs,  and  an  archdeaconess  who  snubbed  us  till 
it  leaked  out  through  that  Aunt  Mary  that  you  were 
the  Chauncey  Randolph)  said  if  we  wanted  to  see  a 
thoroughly  characteristic  English  village,  we  ought 
to  run  out  to  Cobham;  and  we  ran — to-day. 

Aunt  Mary  had  one  of  her  presentiments  against 
the  expedition,  so  I  was  sure  it  would  turn  out  nice. 
When  we  drove  up  to  this  lovely  old  red-brick  hotel, 
in  a  thing  they  call  a  fly  because  it  crawls ;  there  were 
several  automobiles  starting  off,  and  I  can  tell  you  I 
felt  small — just  as  if  I  were  Miss  Noah  getting  out  the 
ark.  (Were  there  any  Miss  Noahs,  by  the  way?) 


2  The  Lightning  Conductor 

One  of  the  automobiles  was  different  from  any 
I've  ever  seen  on  our  side  or  this.  It  was  high  and 
dignified,  like  a  chariot,  and  looked  over  the  heads 
of  the  others  as  the  archdeaconess  used  to  look 
over  mine  till  she  heard  whose  daughter  I  was.  A 
chauffeur  was  sitting  on  the  front  seat,  and  a  gorgeous 
man  had  jumped  down  and  was  giving  him  direc 
tions.  He  wasn't  looking  my  way,  so  I  seized  the 
opportunity  to  snapshot  him,  as  a  souvenir  of  English 
scenery;  but  that  tactless  Kodak  of  mine  gave  the 
loudest  "click"  you  ever  heard,  and  he  turned  his 
head  in  time  to  suspect  what  had  been  happening.  I 
swept  past  with  my  most  "haughty  Lady  Gwen 
dolen"  air,  talking  to  Aunt  Mary,  and  hoped  I 
shouldn't  see  him  again.  But  we'd  hardly  got  seated 
for  lunch  in  a  beautiful  old  room,  panelled  from  floor 
to  ceiling  with  ancient  oak,  when  he  came  into  the 
room,  and  Aunt  Mary,  who  has  a  sneaking  weakness 
for  titles  (I  suppose  it's  the  effect  of  the  English 
climate),  murmured  that  there  was  her  ideal  of  a 
duke. 

The  Gorgeous  Man  strolled  up  and  took  a  place  at 
our  table.  He  passed  Aunt  Mary  some  things  which 
she  didn't  want,  and  then  began  to  throw  out  a  few 
conversational  feelers.  If  you're  a  girl,  and  want 
fun  in  England,  it's  no  end  of  a  pull  being  American ; 
for  if  you  do  anything  that  people  think  queer,  they 
just  sigh,  and  say,  "Poor  creature!  she's  one  of  those 
mad  Americans,"  and  put  you  down  as  harmless.  I 
don't  know  whether  an  English  girl  would  have 
talked  or  not,  but  I  did;  and  he  knew  lots  of  our 
friends,  especially  in  Paris,  and  it  was  easy  to  see 


The  Lightning  Conductor  3 

he  was  a  raving,  tearing  "swell,"  even  if  he  wasn't 
exactly  a  duke.  I  can't  remember  how  it  began, 
but  really  it  was  Aunt  Mary  and  not  I  who  chattered 
about  our  trip,  and  how  we  were  abroad  for  the  first 
time,  and  were  going  to  "do"  Europe  as  soon  as  we 
had  "done"  England. 

The  Gorgeous  Man  had  lived  in  France  (he  seems 
to  have  lived  nearly  everywhere,  and  to  know  every 
body  and  everything  worth  knowing),  and,  said  he, 
"What  a  pity  we  couldn't  do  our  tour  on  a  motor 
car!  "  At  that  I  became  flippant,  and  inquired  which, 
in  his  opinion,  would  be  more  suitable  as  chauffeur — 
Aunt  Mary  or  I;  whereupon  he  announced  that  he 
was  not  joking,  but  serious.  We  ought  to  have  a 
motor-car  and  a  chauffeur.  Then  we  might  say,  like 
Monte  Cristo,  "The  world  is  mine." 

He  went  on  to  tell  of  the  wonderful  journeys  he'd 
made  in  his  car,  "which  we  might  have  noticed  out 
side."  It  seemed  it  was  better  than  any  other  sort 
of  car  in  the  world;  in  fact  there  was  no  other 
exactly  like  it,  as  it  had  been  made  especially  for  him. 
You  simply  couldn't  break  it,  it  was  so  strong;  the 
engine  would  outlast  two  of  any  other  kind;  and 
one  of  the  advantages  was  that  it  had  belts  and  a 
marvellous  arrangement  called  a  "jockey  pulley" 
to  regulate  the  speed:  consequently  it  ran  more 
"sweetly"  (that  was  the  word  he  used)  than  gear- 
driven  cars,  which,  according  to  him,  jerk,  and  are 
noisy,  break  easily,  and  do  all  sorts  of  disagreeable 
things. 

By  the  time  we  were  half  through  lunch  I  was 
envying  him  his  car,  and  feeling  as  if  life  wasn't 


4  The  Lightning  Conductor 

worth  living,  because  I  couldn't  have  it  to  play  with. 
I  asked  if  I  could  buy  one  like  it,  but  he  was  very 
discouraging.  He  had  had  his  fitted  up  with  lots  of 
expensive  improvements,  and  it  didn't  pay  the  firm 
to  make  cars  like  that  for  the  public,  so  I  would  have 
to  order  one  specially,  and  it  might  be  months  before 
it  could  be  Delivered.  I  was  thinking  it  rather  in 
considerate  in  him  to  work  me  up  to  such  a  pitch, 
just  to  cast  me  down  again,  when  he  mentioned,  in 
an  incidental  way,  that  he  intended  to  sell  his  car, 
because  he  had  ordered  a  racer  of  forty  horse-power. 

I  jumped  at  that  and  said,  "Why  not  sell  it  to  me?*' 

You  ought  to  have  seen  Aunt  Mary's  face!  But  we 
didn't  give  her  time  to  speak,  and  gasps  are  more 
effectual  as  punctuations  than  interruptions. 

Her  Duke  was  too  much  moved  to  pause  for  them. 
He  hurried  to  say  that  he  hoped  I  hadn't  misunder 
stood  him.  The  last  thought  in  his  mind  had  been 
to  "make  a  deal."  Of  course,  if  I  really  contem 
plated  buying  a  car,  I  must  see  a  great  many  different 
kinds  before  deciding.  But  as  it  seemed  I  had  never 
had  a  ride  on  an  automobile  (your  fault,  Dad — your 
only  one!),  he  would  be  delighted  to  take  us  a  little 
spin  in  his  car. 

Before  Aunt  Mary  could  get  in  a  word  I  had 
accepted;  for  I  did  want  to  go.  And  what  is  Aunt 
Mary  for  if  not  to  make  all  the  things  I  want  to  do 
and  otherwise  couldn't,  strictly  proper? 

Anyhow,  we  went,  and  it  was  heavenly.  I  know 
how  a  bird  feels  now,  only  more  so.  You  know,  Dad, 
how  quickly  I  make  up  my  mind.  I  take  that  from 
you,  and  in  our  spin  through  beautiful  lanes  to  a  de- 


The  Lightning  Conductor  5 

lightful  hotel  called— just  think  of  it !— the  "  Hautboy 
and  Fiddle,"  at  the  village  of  Ockham,  I'd  had  quite 
time  enough  to  determine  that  I  wanted  the  Duke's 
car,  if  it  could  be  got. 

I  said  so;  he  objected.  You've  no  idea  how  deli 
cate  he  was  about  it,  so  afraid  it  might  seem  that  he 
had  taken  advantage.  I  assured  him  that,  if  any 
thing,  it  was  the  other  way  round,  and  at  last  he 
yielded.  The  car  really  is  a  beauty.  You  can  put 
a  big  trunk  on  behind,  and  there  are  places  for  tools 
and  books  and  lunch,  and  no  end  of  little  things,  in 
a  box  under  the  cushions  we  sit  on,  and  even  under 
the  floor.  You  never  saw  anything  so  convenient. 
He  showed  me  everything,  and  explained  the  ma 
chinery,  but  that  part  I  forgot  as  fast  as  he  talked, 
so  I  can't  tell  you  now  exactly  on  what  principle 
the  engine  works.  When  it  came  to  a  talk  about 
price  I  thought  he  would  say  two  thousand  five 
hundred  dollars  at  least  (that's  five  hundred  pounds, 
isn't  it?)  for  such  a  splendid  chariot.  I  know  Jimmy 
Payne  gave  nearly  twice  that  for  the  one  he  brought 
over  to  New  York  last  year,  and  it  wasn't  half  as 
handsome;  but — would  you  believe  it? — the  man 
seemed  quite  shy  at  naming  one  thousand  five  hun 
dred  dollars.  It  was  a  second-hand  car  now,  he 
insisted,  though  he  had  only  had  it  three  months,  and 
he  wouldn't  think  of  charging  more.  I  felt  as  if  I 
were  playing  the  poor  fellow  a  real  Yankee  trick 
when  I  cried '"Done!" 

Well,  now,  Dad,  there's  my  confession.  That's  all 
up  to  date,  except  that  the  Duke,  who  isn't  a  duke, 
but  plain  Mr.  Reginald  Cecil-Lanstown  ("plain'5 


6  The  Lightning  Conductor 

seems  hardly  the  word  for  all  that,  does  it?)  is  to 
bring  my  car,  late  his,  to  Claridge's  on  Monday,  and 
I'm  to  pay.  You  dear,  to  have  given  me  such  an 
unlimited  letter  of  credit!  He's  got  to  get  me  a 
chauffeur  who  can  speak  French  and  knows  the  Con 
tinent,  and  Aunt  Mary  and  I  will  do  the  rest  of  our 
London  shopping  on  an  automobile — my  own,  if 
you  please.  Then,  when  we  are  ready  to  cross  the 
Channel,  we'll  drive  to  Newhaven,  ship  the  car  to 
Dieppe,  and  after  that  I  hope  we  shan't  so  much  as 
see  a  railroad  train,  except  from  a  long  distance. 
Automobiles  for  ever,  say  I,  mine  in  particular. 

I'm  writing  this  after  we  have  come  back  to 
Cobham,  and  while  we  wait  for  the  fly  which  is  to 
take  us  to  the  station.  Aunt  Mary  says  I  am  mad. 
She  is  quite  "off"  her  Duke  now,  and  thinks  he  is  a 
fraud.  By  the  way,  when  that  photo  is  developed 
I'll  send  it  to  you,  so  that  you  can  see  your  daughter's 
new  gee-gee.  Here  comes  the  cab,  so  good-bye,  you 
old  saint.  From 

Your  sinner, 

MOLLY. 


GARLTON  HOTEL,  LONDON, 

November  14. 

Dearest, 

I've  got  it;  it's  mine;  bought  and  paid  for. 
It's  so  handsome  that  even  Aunt  Mary  is  mollified. 
(I  didn't  mean  that  for  a  pun,  but  let  it  pass.)  Mr. 
Cecil-Lanstown  has  told  me  everything  I  ought  to 
know  (about  motor-cars,  I  mean),  and  now,  after 
having  tea  with  us,  looking  dukier  than  ever,  he  has 
departed  with  a  roll  of  your  hard-earned  money  in 
his  pocket.  It's  lucky  I  met  him  when  I  did,  and 
secured  the  car,  for  he  has  been  called  out  of  England 
on  business,  is  going  to-morrow,  and  seems  not  to 
know  when  he'll  be  able  to  get  back.  But  he  says 
we  may  meet  in  France  when  he  has  his  big  racing 
automobile. 

The  only  drawback  to  my  new  toy  is  the  chauffeur. 
Why  "chauffeur,11  by  the  way,  I  wonder?  He  doesn't 
heat  anything.  On  the  contrary,  if  I  understand  the 
matter,  it's  apparently  his  duty  to  keep  things  cool, 
including  his  own  head.  This  one  looks  as  if  he  had 
had  his  head  on  ice  for  years.  He  is  the  gloomiest 
man  I  ever  saw,  gives  you  the  feeling  that  he  may 
burst  into  tears  any  minute;  but  Mr.  Cecil-Lans 
town  says  he  is 'one  of  the  best  chauffeurs  in  England, 
and  thoroughly  understands  this  particular  make  of 
car,  which  is  German. 

7 


8  The  Lightning  Conductor 

The  man's  name  is  Rattray.  It  suits  him  somehow. 
If  I  were  the  heroine  of  a  melodrama,  I  should  feel 
the  minute  I  set  eyes  on  Rattray  that  he  was  the 
villain  of  the  piece,  and  I  should  hang  on  like  grim 
death  to  any  marriage  certificates  or  wills  that  might 
concern  me,  for  I  should  know  it  would  be  his  aim 
during  at  least  four  acts  to  get  possession  of  them. 
He  has  enormous  blue  eyes  like  Easter  eggs,  and  his 
ears  look  something  like  cactuses,  only,  thank  good 
ness,  I'm  spared  their  being  green;  they  wouldn't  go 
with  his  complexion.  I  talked  to  him  and  put  on 
scientific  airs,  but  I'm  afraid  they  weren't  effective, 
for  he  hardly  said  anything,  only  looked  gloomy,  and 
as  if  he  read  "amateur"  written  on  my  soul  or  some 
where  where  it  wasn't  supposed  to  show.  He's  gone 
now  to  make  arrangements  for  keeping  my  car  in  a 
garage.  He's  to  bring  it  round  every  morning  at  ten 
o'clock,  and  is  to  teach  me  to  drive.  I  won't  seal 
this  letter  up  till  to-morrow  then  I  can  tell  you  how 
I  like  my  first  lesson. 

November  15. 

I  was  proud  of  the  car  when  I  went  out  on  it 
yesterday.  Aunt  Mary  wouldn't  go,  because  she 
doesn't  wish  to  be  the  "victim  of  an  experiment." 
Rattray  drove  for  a  long  way,  but  when  we  got 
beyond  the  traffic,  towards  Richmond,  I  took  his 
place,  and  my  lesson  began.  It's  harder  than  I 
thought  it  would  be,  because  you  have  to  do  so  many 
things  at  once.  You  really  ought  to  have  three  or 
four  hands  with  this  car,  Rattray  says.  When  I 


The  Lightning  Conductor  9 

asked  him  if  it  was  different  with  other  cars,  he 
didn't  seem  to  hear.  Already  I've  noticed  that  he's 
subject  to  a  sort  of  spasmodic  deafness,  but  I  suppose 
I  must  put  up  with  that,  as  he  is  such  a  fine  mechanic. 
One  can't  have  everything. 

With  your  left  hand  you  have  to  steer  the  car  by 
means  of  a  kind  of  tiller,  and  to  this  is  attached  the 
horn  to  warn  creatures  of  all  sorts  that  you're  coming. 
I  blow  this  with  my  right  hand,  but  Rattray  says  I 
ought  to  learn  to  do  it  while  steering  with  the  left,  as 
there  are  quantities  of  other  things  to  be  done  with 
the  right  hand.  First  there  is  a  funny  little  handle 
with  which  you  change  speeds  whenever  you  come 
to  a  hill;  then  there  is  the  "jockey-pulley-lever," 
which  gives  the  right  tension  to  the  belts  (this  is 
very  important) ;  the  "  throttle- valve-lever,"  on  which 
you  must  always  keep  your  hand  to  control  the 
speed  of  the  car;  and  the  brake  which  you  jam  on 
when  you  want  to  stop.  So  there  are  two  things  to 
do  with  the  left  hand,  and  four  things  with  the  right, 
and  often  most  of  these  things  must  be  done  at  the 
same  time.  No  wonder  I  was  confused  and  got  my 
hands  a  little  mixed,  so  that  I  forgot  which  was 
which,  and  things  went  wrong  for  a  second!  Just 
then  a  cart  was  rude  enough  to  come  round  a  corner. 
I  tried  to  steer  to  the  right,  but  went  to  the  left — 
and  you  can't  think  how  many  things  can  happen 
with  a  motor-car  in  one  second. 

Now,  don't  be  worried!  I  wasn't  hurt  a  bit;  only 
we  charged  on  to  the  sidewalk,  and  butted  into  a 
shop.  It  was  my  fault,  not  a  bit  the  car's.  If  it 
weren't  a  splendid  car  it  would  have  been  smashed  to 


io  The  Lightning  Conductor 

pieces,  and  perhaps  we  with  it,  instead  of  just  break 
ing  the  front — oh,  and  the  shop  too,  a  little.  I  shall 
have  to  pay  the  man  something.  He's  a  ''haber 
dasher,"  whatever  that  is,  but  it  sounds  like  the  sort 
of  name  he  might  have  called  me  if  he'd  been  very 
angry  when  I  broke  his  window. 

The  one  bad  consequence  of  my  stupidity  is  that 
the  poor,  innocent,  sinned- against  car  must  lie  up  for 
repairs.  Rattray  says  they  may  take  some  days.  In 
that  case  Aunt  Mary  and  I  must  do  our  shopping  in 
a  hired  brougham — such  an  anti-climax ;  but  Rattray 
promises  that  the  dear  thing  shall  be  ready  for  our 
start  to  France  on  the  ipth.  Meanwhile,  I  shall 
console  myself  for  my  disappointment  by  buying  an 
outfit  for  a  trip — a  warm  coat,  and  a  mask,  and  a 
hood,  and  all  sorts  of  tricky  little  things  I've  marked 
in  a  perfectly  thrilling  catalogue. 

Now,  if  you  fuss,  I  shall  be  sorry  I've  told  you  the 
truth.  Remember  the  axiom  about  the  bad  penny. 
That's 

Your 

MOLLY 


THE  HORRIBLE  RESTAURANT  OF  THE  BOULE  D'OR, 
SURESNES,  NEAR  PARIS, 

November  28. 

Forgive  me,  dear,  long  -  suffering  -  because  -  you  - 
couldn't-help-yourself-Dad,  for  being  such  a  beast 
about  writing.  But  I  did  send  you  three  cables, 
didn't  I?  Aunt  Mary  would  have  written,  only  I 
threatened  her  with  unspeakable  things  if  she  did. 
I  knew  so  well  what  she  would  say,  and  I  wouldn't 
have  it.  Now,  however,  I'm  going  to  tell  you  the 
truth,  the  whole  truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth — no 
varnish.  Indeed,  there  isn't  much  varnish  left  on 
anything. 

I  wonder  if  I  can  make  you  comprehend  the 
things  I've  gone  through  in  the  last  two  or  three 
days?  Why,  Dad,  I  feel  old  enough  to  be  your 
mother.  But  I'll  try  and  begin  at  the  beginning, 
though  it  seems,  to  look  back,  almost  before  the 
memory  of  man,  to  say  nothing  of  woman.  Let  me 
see,  where  is  the  beginning,  when  I  was  still  young 
and  happy?  Perhaps  it's  in  our  outfit  for  the  trip. 
I  can  dwell  upon  that  with  comparative  calmness. 

Even  Aunt  ^Eary  was  happy.  You  would  have 
had  to  rush  out  and  take  your  "apoplectic  medicine," 
as  I  used  to  call  it,  if  you  could  have  seen  her  trying 
different  kinds  of  masks  and  goggles,  and  asking 

ii 


12  The  Lightning  Conductor 

gravely  which  were  most  becoming.  Thank  Heaven 
that  I've  inherited  your  sense  of  humour!  To  that  I 
have  owed  my  sanity  during  the  last  dies  ires.  (Is 
that  the  way  to  spell  it?) 

I  wouldn't  have  the  conventional  kind  of  mask, 
nor  goggles.  Seeing  Aunt  Mary  in  her  armour 
saved  me  from  that.  I  bought  what  they  call  a 
"toilet  mask,"  which  women  vainer  than  I  wear  at 
night  to  preserve  their  complexions.  This  was  only 
for  a  last  resort  on  very  dusty  days,  to  be  hidden 
from  sight  by  a  thin,  grey  veil,  as  if  I  were  a  modern 
prophet  of  Korassan. 

We  got  dust-grey  cloaks,  waterproof  cloth  on  the 
outside,  and  lined  with  fur.  Aunt  Mary  invested  in 
a  kind  of  patent  helmet,  with  curtains  that  unfurl 
on  the  sides,  to  cover  the  ears;  and  I  found  myself 
so  fetching  in  a  hood  that  I  bought  one,  as  well  as  a 
toque,  to  provide  for  all  weathers.  Then  we  got  a 
fascinating  tea-basket,  foot-warmers  that  burn  char 
coal,  and  had  two  flat  trunks  made  on  purpose  to 
fit  the  back  of  the  car,  with  tarpaulin  covers  to  take 
on  and  off.  Our  big  luggage  we  planned  to  send  to 
places  where  we  wanted  to  make  a  long  stay;  but 
we  would  have  enough  with  us  to  make  us  feel  self- 
contained  and  independent. 

We  did  look  ship-shape  when  we  started  from  the 
"  Carlton  "  on  the  morning  of  November  igth,  with 
our  luggage  strapped  on  behind,  the  foot- warmers 
and  tea-basket  on  the  floor,  our  umbrellas  in  a  hang 
ing-basket  contrivance,  a  fur-lined  waterproof  rug 
over  Aunt  Mary's  knees  and  mine.  I'd  taken  no 
more  lessons  since  that  first  day  I  wrote  you  about, 


The  Lightning  Conductor  13 

owing  to  the  car  not  being  ready  until  the  night 
before  OUT  start,  so  Rattray  sat  in  front  alone,  Aunt 
Mary  and  I  together  behind. 

We  meant  to  have  got  off  about  eight,  as  we  had 
to  drive  over  fifty  miles  to  Newhaven,  where  the  car 
was  to  be  shipped  that  night;  but  Rattray  had  a 
little  difficulty  in  starting  the  car,  and  we  were  half 
an  hour  late,  which  was  irritating,  especially  as  a 
good  many  people  were  waiting  to  see  us  off.  At 
last,  however,  we  shot  away  in  fine  style,  which 
checked  Aunt  Mary  in  the  middle  of  her  thirty- 
second  sigh. 

All  went  well  for  a  couple  of  hours.  We  were  out 
in  the  country — lovely  undulating  English  country. 
The  car,  which  Mr.  Cecil-Lanstown  had  said  was 
beyond  all  others  as  a  hill-climber,  was  justifying 
its  reputation,  as  I  had  confidently  expected  it 
would.  The  air  was  cold,  but  instead  of  making 
one  shiver,  our  blood  tingled  with  exhilaration  as  we 
flew  along.  You  know  what  a  chilly  body  Aunt 
Mary  is?  Even  she  didn't  complain  of  the  weather, 
and  hardly  needed  her  foot- warmer  "This  is  life!" 
said  I  to  myself.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I'd  never 
known  the  height  of  physical  pleasure  until  I'd 
driven  in  a  motor-car.  It  was  better  than  dancing 
on  a  perfect  floor  with  a  perfect  partner  to  pluperfect 
music;  better  than  eating  when  you're  awfully 
hungry ;  better  than  holding  out  your  hands  to  a  fire 
when  they're  numb  with  cold ;  better  than  a  bath  after 
a  hot,  dusty  railway  journey.  I  can't  give  it  higher 
praise,  can  I? — and  I  Jewish  for  you.  I  thought 
you  would  be  converted.  Oh,  my  wwprophetic  soul  1 


14  The  Lightning  Conductor 

Suddenly,  sailing  up  a  steep  hill  at  about  ten  miles 
an  hour,  the  car  stopped,  and  would  have  run  back 
if  Rattray  hadn't  put  on  the  brakes.  "What's  the 
matter? "  said  I,  while  Aunt  Mary  convulsively 
clutched  my  arm. 

"Only  a  belt  broken,  miss,"  he  returned  gloomily. 
"Means  twenty  minutes'  delay,  that's  all.  Sorry  I 
must  trouble  you  ladies  to  get  up.  New  belts  and 
belt-fasteners  under  your  seat.  Tools  'under  the 
floor." 

We  were  relieved  to  think  it  was  no  worse,  and 
reminded  ourselves  that  we  had  much  to  be  thankful 
for,  while  we  disarranged  our  comfortably  established 
selves.  There  were  the  tea-basket  and  the  foot- 
warmers  to  be  lifted  from  the  floor  and  deposited  on 
Rattray 's  vacant  front  seat,  the  big  rug  to  be  got  rid 
of,  our  feet  to  be  put  up  while  the  floor-board  was 
lifted,  then  we  had  to  stand  while  the  cushions  were 
pulled  off  the  seat  and  the  lid  of  the  box  raised.  We, 
or  at  least  I,  tried  to  think  it  was  part  of  the  fun; 
but  it  was  a  little  depressing  to  hear  Rattray  grunt 
ing  and  grumbling  to  himself  as  he  unstrapped  the 
luggage,  hoisted  it  off  the  back  of  the  car  so  that 
he  could  get  at  the  broken  belt  inside,  and  plumped 
it  down  viciously  on  the  dusty  road. 

The  delay  was  nearer  half  an  hour  than  twenty 
minutes,  and  it  seemed  extra  long  because  it  was  a 
strain  entertaining  Aunt  Mary  to  keep  her  from 
saying  "  I  told  you  so  !  "  But  we  had  not  gone  two 
miles  before  our  little  annoyance  was  forgotten. 
That  is  the  queer  part  about  automobiling.  You're 
so  happy  when  all's  going  well  that  you  forget  past 


The  Lightning  Conductor  15 

misadventures,  and  feel  joyously  hopeful  that  you 
will  never  have  any  more. 

We  got  on  all  right  until  after  lunch,  which  we  ate 
at  a  lovely  inn  close  to  George  Meredith's  house. 
Then  it  took  half  an  hour  to  start  the  car  again. 
Rattray  looked  as  if  he  were  going  to  burst.  Just  to 
watch  him  turning  that  handle  in  vain  made  me  feel 
as  if  elephants  had  walked  over  me.  He  said  the 
trouble  was  that  "the  compression  was  too  strong," 
and  that  there  was  "back-firing" — whatever  that 
means.  Just  as  I  was  giving  up  hope  the  engine 
started  off  with  a  rush,  and  we  were  on  the  way 
again  through  the  most  soothingly  pretty  country. 
About  four  o'clock,  in  the  midst  of  a  glorious  spin, 
there  was  a  "r-r-r-tch,"  the  car  swerved  to  one  side, 
Aunt  Mary  screamed,  and  we  stopped  dead.  "  Chain 
broken,"  snarled  Rattray. 

Up  we  had  to  jump  once  more:  tea-basket,  foot- 
warmers,  rugs,  ourselves,  everything  had  to  be  hustled 
out  of  the  way  for  Rattray  to  get  at  the  tools  and 
spare  chains  which  we  carried  in  the  box  under  our 
seats.  I  began  to  think  perhaps  the  car  wasn't  quite 
so  conveniently  arranged  for  touring  as  I  had  fancied, 
but  I'd  have  died  sooner  than  say  so — then.  1  pre 
tended  that  this  was  a  capital  opportunity  for  tea,  so 
opened  the  tea-basket,  and  we  had  quite  a  picnic  by 
the  roadside  while  Rattray  fussed  with  the  chain. 
It  wasn't  very  cold,  and  I  looked  forward  to  many 
similar  delightful  halts  in  a  warmer  climate  "by  the 
banks  of  the  brimming  Loire,"  as  I  put  it  jauntily  to 
Aunt  Mary.  But  she  only  said,  "I'm  sure  I  hope  so, 
my  dear,"  in  a  tone  more  chilling  than  the  weather. 


1 6  The  Lightning  Conductor 

It  was  at  least  half  an  hour  before  Rattray  had  the 
chain  properly  fixed,  and  then  there  was  the  usual 
difficulty  in  starting.  Once  the  handle  flew  round 
and  struck  him  on  the  back  of  the  hand.  He  yelled, 
kicked  one  of  the  wheels,  and  went  to  the  grassy  side 
of  the  road,  where  in  the  dusk  I  could  dimly  see  him 
holding  his  hand  to  his  mouth  and  rocking  backwards 
and  forwards.  He  did  look  so  like  a  distracted  goblin 
that  I  could  hardly  steady  my  voice  to  ask  if  he  was 
much  hurt.  "  Nearly  broke  my  hand,  that's  all,  miss," 
he  growled.  At  last  he  flew  at  the  terrible  handle 
again,  managed  to  start  the  motor,  and  we  were  off. 

Going  up  a  hill  in  a  town  that  Rattray  said  was 
called  Lewes,  I  noticed  that  the  car  didn't  seem  to 
travel  with  its  customary  springy  vigour.  "Loss  of 
power,"  Rattray  jerked  at  me  over  his  shoulder  when 
I  questioned  him  as  to  what  was  the  matter,  and 
there  I  had  to  leave  it,  wondering  vaguely  what  he 
meant.  I  think  he  lost  the  way  in  Lewes  (it  was 
now  quite  dark,  with  no  stars);  anyhow,  we  made 
many  windings,  and  at  last  came  out  into  a  plain 
between  dim,  chalky  hills,  with  a  shining  river  faintly 
visible.  Aunt  Mary  had  relapsed  into  expressive 
silence;  the  car  seemed  to  crawl  like  a  wounded 
thing;  but  at  last  we  got  to  Newhaven  pier,  and  had 
our  luggage  carried  on  board  the  boat.  Rattray  was 
to  follow  with  the  car  in  the  cargo-boat.  So  ended 
the  "lesson  for  the  first  day" — a  ten-hour  lesson — 
and  I  felt  sadder  as  well  as  wiser  for  it. 

Aunt  Mary  went  to  sleep  as  soon  as  we  got  on  the 
boat;  but  I  was  so  excited  at  the  thought  of  seeing 
France  that  I  stayed  on  deck,  wrapped  in  the  warm 


The  Lightning  Conductor  17 

coat  I'd  bought  for  the  car.  We  had  a  splendid 
crossing,  and  as  we  got  near  Dieppe  I  could  see  chalk 
cliffs  and  a  great  gaunt  crucifix  on  the  pier  leading 
into  the  harbour.  It  seemed  as  if  I  were  in  a  dream 
when  I  heard  people  chattering  French  quite  as  a 
matter  of  course  to  each  other,  and  I  liked  the 
douaniers,  the  smart  soldiers,  and  the  railway  porters 
in  blue  blouses.  It  was  four  in  the  morning  when 
we  landed.  Of  course,  it  was  the  dead  season  at 
Dieppe,  but  we  got  in  at  a  hotel  close  to  the  sea. 
It  was  lovely  waking  up,  rather  late,  one's  very  first 
day  in  France,  looking  out  of  the  window  at  the 
bright  water  and  the  little  fishing-boats,  with  their 
red-brown  sails,  and  smelling  a  really  heavenly  scent 
of  strong  coffee  and  fresh-baked  rolls. 

Later  in  the  morning  I  walked  round  to  the  har 
bour  to  find  that  the  cargo-boat  had  arrived,  and 
that  Rattray  and  the  car  had  been  landed.  The 
creature  actually  greeted  me  with  smiles.  Now 
for  the  first  time  he  was  a  comfort.  He  did  every 
thing,  paid  the  deposit  demanded  by  the  custom 
house,  and  got  the  necessary  papers.  Then  he  drove 
me  back  to  the  hotel,  but  as  it  was  about  midday  I 
thought  that  it  would  be  nicer  to  start  for  Paris  the 
next  day,  when  I  hoped  we  could  have  a  long,  clear 
run.  In  Paris,  of  course,  Aunt  Mary  and  I  wanted 
to  stay  for  at  least  a  week.  Rattray  promised  to 
thoroughly  overhaul  the  car,  so  that  there  need  be 
no  "incidents"  on  the  way. 

There  was  a  crowd  round  us  next  morning — a 
friendly,  good-natured  little  crowd — when  we  were 
getting  ready  to  start  in  the  stable-yard  of  the  hotel. 


1 8  The  Lightning  Conductor 

Our  landlady  was  there,  a  duck  of  a  woman;  the 
hotel  porters  in  green  baize  aprons  stood  and  stared; 
some  women  washing  clothes  at  a  trough  in  the 
corner  stopped  their  work;  and  a  lot  of  funny,  wee 
schoolboys,  with  short  cropped  hair  and  black  blouses 
with  leather  belts,  buzzed  round,  gesticulating  and 
trying  to  explain  the  mechanism  of  the  car  to  each 
other.  Rattray  bustled  about  with  an  oil-can  in  his 
hand,  then  loaded  up  our  luggage,  and  all  was  ready. 
With  more  dignity  than  confidence  I  mounted  to  the 
high  seat  beside  Aunt  Mary.  This  time,  with  one 
turn  of  the  handle,  the  motor  started,  so  contrary  is 
this  strange  beast,  the  automobile.  One  day  you  toil 
at  the  starting-handle  half  an  hour,  the  next  the  thing 
comes  to  life  with  a  touch,  and  nobody  can  explain 
why.  Bowing  to  madame  and  the  hotel  people,  we 
sailed  gracefully  out  of  the  hotel  yard,  Rattray  too- 
tooing  a  fanfarronade  on  the  horn.  It  was  a  splendid 
start! 

The  streets  of  Dieppe  are  of  those  horrid  uneven 
stones  that  the  French  call  pav£,  and  our  car  jolted 
over  them  with  as  much  noise  and  clatter  as  if  we'd 
had  a  cargo  of  dishes.  You  see  the  car's  very  solidly 
built  and  heavy — that,  said  Mr.  Cecil-Lanstown,  is 
one  of  its  merits.  It  is  of  oak,  an  inch  thick,  and 
you  can't  break  it.  Another  thing  in  its  favour  is 
that  it  has  solid  tyres,  and  not  those  horrid  pneu 
matics,  which  are  always  bursting  and  puncturing, 
and  give  no  end  of  trouble.  "  With  solid  tyres  you 
are  always  safe,"  said  Mr.  Cecil-Lanstown.  I  can't 
help  thinking,  though,  that  on  roads  like  these  of 
Dieppe  it  would  be  soothing  to  have  "  pneus,"  as  they 


The  Lightning  Conductor  19 

call  their*.  Jingle,  jingle!  scrunch,  scrunch!  goes  the 
machinery  inside,  and  all  the  loose  parts  of  the  car. 
It  did  get  on  my  nerves. 

But  soon  we  were  out  of  the  town  and  on  one  of 
the  smoothest  roads  you  ever  saw.  Rattray  said  it 
was  a  "route  nationale,"  and  that  they  are  the  best 
roads  in  the  world.  The  car  bounded  along  as  if  it 
were  on  a  billiard-table.  Even  Aunt  Mary  said, 

"Now,  if  it  were  always  like  this "     My  spirits 

went  up,  up.  I  proudly  smiled  and  bowed  to  the 
peasants  in  their  orchards  by  the  roadsides.  I  was 
even  inclined  to  pat  Rattray  on  the  shoulder  of  his 
black  leather  coat.  This,  this  was  life!  The  sun 
shone,  the  fresh  air  sang  in  our  ears,  the  car  ran  as  if 
it  had  the  strength  of  a  giant.  I  felt  as  independent 
as  a  gipsy  in  his  caravan,  only  we  were  travelling  at 
many  times  his  speed.  The  country  seemed  to  unfold 
just  like  a  panorama.  At  each  turn  I  looked  for  an 
adventure. 

We  skimmed  through  a  delicious  green  country 
given  up  to  enormous  orchards  which,  Aunt  Mary 
read  out  of  a  guide-book,  yield  the  famous  cidre  de 
Normandie.  I  thought  of  the  lovely  pink  dress  this 
land  would  wear  by-and-by,  and  then  suddenly  we 
came  out  from  a  small  road  on  to  a  broad,  winding 
one,  and  there  was  a  wide  view  over  waving  country, 
with  a  white  town  like  a  butterfly  that  had  fluttered 
into  a  bird's  nest.  Rattray  let  the  car  go  down  this 
long  road  towards  the  valley  at  something  like  thirty 
miles  an  hour,  and  Aunt  Mary's  hand  had  nervously 
grasped  the  rail  when  there  came  a  kind  of  sigh  inside 
the  car,  and  it  paused  to  rest. 


2O  The  Lightning  Conductor 

Rattray  jumped  off  and  made  puzzled  inspection. 
"  Can't  see  anything  wrong,  miss;  must  take  off 
the  luggage  and  look  inside."  It  is  a,  peculiarity  that 
every  working  part  is  hidden  modestly  under  the 
body  of  the  car.  This  protects  them  from  wet  and 
dust,  Mr.  Cecil-Lanstown  told  me;  but  it  seems  a 
little  inconvenient  to  have  to  haul  off  all  the  luggage 
every  time  you  want  to  examine  the  machinery.  It 
didn't  take  long  to  find  out  what  was  the  matter. 
The  "  aspiration  pipe,"  Rattray  said,  had  worked  loose 
(no  doubt  through  the  jolting  over  the  Dieppe  pavt) 
and  the  "vapour  couldn't  get  from  the  carburetter 
to  the  explosion  chamber." 

I  only  partly  understood,  but  I  felt  that  the  poor 
car  wasn't  to  blame.  How  could  it  be  expected  to 
go  on  without  aspirating?  There  was  "no  spanner 
to  fit  the  union,"  and  Rattray  darkly  hinted  at  further 
trouble.  Three  little  French  boys  with  a  go-cart  had 
come  to  stare.  I  Kodaked  them  and  send  you  their 
picture  in  this  letter  as  a  sort  of  punctuation  to  my 
complaints. 

Well,  when  Rattray  had  screwed  up  the  "union" 
as  well  as  he  could  (isn't  that  what  our  statesmen  did 
after  the  confederate  war?),  off  we  started  again, 
bustled  through  the  town  in  the  valley  (which  I  found 
from  Murray  was  Neufchatel-en-Bray),  and  had  a 
consoling  run  through  beautiful  country  until,  at 
noon,  we  shot  into  the  market-place  of  Forges  les 
Eaux.  It  was  market-day,  and  we  drove  at  a  walk 
ing  pace  through  the  crowded  place,  all  alive  with 
booths,  the  cackling  of  turkeys,  and  the  lowing  of 
cows.  There  seemed  to  be  only  one  decent  inn,  and 


The  Lightning  Conductor  21 

the  salle  d  manger  was  full  of  loud-talking  peasants, 
with  shrewd,  brown,  wrinkled  faces  like  masks,  who 
"ate  out  loud,"  as  I  used  to  say. 

The  place  was  so  thronged  that  Rattray  had  to  sit 
at  the  same  table  with  us,  and  though  as  a  good 
democrat  I  oughtn't  to  have  minded,  I  did  squirm  a 
little,  for  his  manners — well,  "they're  better  not  to 
dwell  on."  But  the  luncheon  was  good,  so  French 
and  so  cheap.  We  hurried  over  it,  but  it  took 
Rattray  half  an  hour  to  replenish  the  tanks  of  the 
car  with  water  (of  course  he  had  to  lift  down  the 
luggage  to  do  this)  and  to  oil  the  bearings.  We 
sailed  out  of  Forges  les  Eaux  so  bravely  that  my 
hopes  went  up.  It  seemed  certain  we  should  be  in 
Paris  quite  in  good  time,  but  almost  as  soon  as  we 
had  got  out  of  the  town  one  of  the  chains  glided 
gracefully  off  on  to  the  road. 

You'd  think  it  the  simplest  thing  in  the  world  to 
slip  it  on  again,  but  that  was  just  what  it  wasn't. 
Rattray  worked  over  it  half  an  hour  (everything 
takes  half  an  hour  to  do  on  this  car,  I  notice,  when 
it  doesn't  take  more),  saying  things  under  his  breath 
which  Aunt  Mary  was  too  deaf  and  I  too  dignified 
to  hear.  Finally  I  was  driven  to  remark  waspishly, 
" You'd  be  a  bad  soldier;  a  good  soldier  makes  the 
best  of  things,  and  bears  them  like  a  man.  You 
make  the  worst." 

"That's  all  very  well,  miss,"  retorted  my  gloomy 
goblin;  "biA  soldiers  have  to  fight  men,  not  beasts." 

"They  get  killed  sometimes,"  said  I. 

"There's  things  makes  a  man  want  to  die,"  groaned 
he.  And  that  silenced  me,  even  though  I  heard  a 


22  The  Lightning  Conductor 

ceaseless  mumbling  about  "every  bloomin'  screw 
being  loose;  that  he'd  engaged  as  a  mechanic,  not  a 
car-maker;  that  if  he  was  a  car-maker,  he  was 
hanged  if  he'd  disgrace  himself  making  one  of  this 
sort,  anyhow." 

You'll  think  I'm  exaggerating,  but  I  vow  we  had 
not  gone  more  than  ten  miles  further  before  that 
chain  broke  again.  This  time  I  believe  Rattray  shed 
tears.  As  for  Aunt  Mary,  her  attitude  was  that  of 
cold,  Christian  resignation.  She  had  sacrificed  her 
self  to  me,  and  would  continue  to  do  so,  since  such 
was  her  Duty,  with  a  capital  D;  indeed,  she  had 
expected  this,  and  from  the  first  she  had  told  me, 
etc.,  etc.  At  last  the  chain  was  forced  on  again  and 
fastened  with  a  new  bolt.  We  sped  forward  for  a 
few  deceitful  moments,  but — detail  is  growing 
monotonous.  After  that  something  happened  to  the 
car,  on  the  average,  every  hour.  Chains  snapped  or 
came  off;  if  belts  didn't  break,  they  were  too  short 
or  too  long.  Mysterious  squeaks  made  themselves 
heard;  the  crank-head  got  hot  (what  head  wouldn't?), 
and  we  had  to  wait  until  it  thought  fit  to  cool,  a 
process  which  could  scarcely  be  accelerated  by  Rat- 
tray's  language.  He  now  announced  that  this  make 
of  car,  and  my  specimen  in  particular,  was  the  vilest 
in  the  automobile  world.  If  a  worse  could  be  made, 
it  did  not  yet  exist!  When  I  ventured  to  inquire 
why  he  had  not  expressed  this  opinion  before  leaving 
London,  he  announced  that  it  was  not  his  business 
to  express  opinions,  but  to  drive  such  vehicles  as  he 
was  engaged  to  drive.  I  hoped  that  there  must  be 
something  wrong  with  the  automobile  which  Rattray 


The  Lightning  Conductor  23 

didn't  understand;  that  in  Paris  I  could  have  it  put 
right,  and  that  even  yet  all  might  go  well.  For  a 
few  miles  we  went  with  reasonable  speed,  and  no 
mishaps;  but  half-way  up  a  long,  long  hill  the 
mystic  "power"  vanished  once  more,  and  there  we 
were  stranded  nearly  opposite  a  forge,  from  which 
strolled  three  huge,  black-faced  men,  adorned  with 
pitying  smiles. 

"Hire  them  to  push,"  I  said  despairingly  to  Rat- 
tray,  and  as  he  turned  a  sulky  back  to  obey,  I  heard 
a  whirring  sound,  and  an  automobile  flew  past  us  up 
the  steep  hill,  going  about  fifteen  miles  an  hour. 
That  did  seem  the  last  straw;  and  with  hatred, 
malice,  and  all  uncharitableness  in  my  breast,  I  was 
shaking  my  fist  after  the  thing,  when  it  stopped 
politely. 

There  were  two  men  in  it,  both  in  leather  caps  and 
coats — I  noticed  that  half  unconsciously.  Now  one 
of  them  jumped  out  and  came  walking  back  to  us. 
Taking  off  his  cap,  he  asked  me  with  his  eyes  and 
Aunt  Mary  with  his  voice — in  English — if  there  was 
anything  he  could  do.  He  was  very  good-looking, 
and  spoke  nicely,  like  a  gentleman,  but  he  seemed  so 
successful  that  I  couldn't  help  hating  him  and  wish 
ing  he  would  go  away.  The  only  thing  I  wanted  was 
that  he  and  the  other  man  and  their  car  should  be 
specks  in  the  distance  when  Rattray  came  back  with 
his  blacksmiths  to  push  us  up  the  hill;  so  I  thanked 
him  hurriedly,  and  said  we  didn't  need  help.  Per 
haps  I  said  it  rather  stiffly,  I  was  so  wild  to  have 
him  gone.  He  stood  for  a  minute  as  if  he  would 
have  liked  to  say  something  else,  but  didn't  know 


24  The  Lightning  Conductor 

how,  then  bowed,  and  went  back  to  his  car.  In  a 
minute  it  was  shooting  up  hill  again,  and  I  never  was 
gladder  at  anything  in  my  life  than  when  I  saw  it 
disappear  over  the  top — only  just  in  time  too,  for  it 
wasn't  out  of  sight  when  our  three  blacksmiths  had 
their  shoulders  to  the  task. 

"There's  a  good  car,  if  you  like,  miss,"  said  that 
fiend  Rattray.  "It's  a  Napier.  Some  pleasure  in 
driving  that" 

I  could  have  boxed  his  ears. 

Once  on  level  ground  again,  the  car  seemed  to 
recover  a  little  strength.  But  night  fell  when  we 
were  still  a  long  way  from  Paris,  and  our  poor  oil- 
lamps  only  gave  light  enough  to  make  darkness 
visible,  so  that  we  daren't  travel  at  high  speed. 
There  were  uncountable  belt-breakings  and  heart- 
achings  before  at  last,  after  eleven  at  night,  we 
crawled  through  the  barriers  of  Paris  and  mounted 
up  the  Avenue  de  la  Grande  Arme'e  to  the  Arc  de 
Triomphe.  We  drove  straight  to  the  Elyse'e  Palace 
Hotel,  and  let  Rattray  take  the  brute  beast  to  a 
garage,  which  I  wished  had  been  a  slaughter-house. 

I  couldn't  sleep  that  night  for  thinking  that  I  was 
actually  in  Paris,  and  for  puzzling  what  to  do  next, 
since  it  was  clear  it  would  be  no  use  going  on  with 
the  car  unless  some  hidden  ailment  could  be  dis 
covered  and  rectified.  Our  plan  had  been  to  stop  in 
Paris  for  a  week,  and  then  drive  on  to  the  beautiful 
chateau  country  of  the  Loire  that  I've  always 
dreamed  of  seeing.  Afterwards,  I  thought  we  might 
go  across  country  to  the  Riviera;  but  now,  unless 
light  suddenly  shone  out  of  darkness,  all  that  was 


The  Lightning  Conductor  25 

knocked  on  the  head.  What  was  my  joy,  then,  in 
the  morning,  when  Rattray  came  and  deigned  to 
inform  me  that  he  had  found  out  the  cause  of  the 
worst  mischief!  "The  connecting-rod  that  worked 
the  magnet  had  got  out  of  adjustment,  and  so  the 
timing  of  the  explosions  was  wrong."  This  could 
be  made  right,  and  he  would  see  to  the  belts  and 
chains.  In  a  few  days  we  might  be  ready  to  get 
away,  with  some  hope  of  better  luck. 

I  was  so  pleased  I  gave  him  a  louis.  Afterwards 
I  wished  I  hadn't — but  that's  a  detail.  f  I  sent  you  a 
cable,  just  saying,  you'll  remember:  "Elysee  Palace 
for  a  week;  all  well";  and  Aunt  Mary  and  I  pro 
ceeded  to  drown  our  sorrows  by  draughts  of  un 
diluted  Paris. 

Crowds  of  Americans  were  at  the  hotel,  a  good 
many  I  knew;  but  Aunt  Mary  and  I  kept  dark 
about  the  automobile — very  different  from  that  time 
in  London,  where  I  was  always  swaggering  around 
talking  of  "my  motor-car"  and  the  trip  I  meant  to 
take.  Poor  little  me! 

Mrs.  Tom  van  Wyck  was  there,  and  she  introduced 
me  to  an  Englishwoman,  Lady  Brighthelmstone,  a 
viscountess,  or  something,  and  you  pronounce  her 
"Lady  Brighton."  She's  near-sighted  and  looks  at 
you  through  a  lorgnette,  which  is  disconcerting,  and 
makes  you  feel  as  if  your  features  didn't  match 
properly;  but  she  turned  out  to  be  rather  nice,  and 
said  she  hoped  we'd  see  each  other  at  Cannes,  where 
she's  going  immediately.  She  expects  her  son  to  join 
her  there.  He's  touring  now  on  his  motor-car,  and 
expects  to  meet  her  and  some  friends  on  the  Riviera 


26  The  Lightning  Conductor 

in  about  a  fortnight.  Mrs.  van  Wyck  told  me  he's 
the  Honourable  John  Winston,  and  a  very  nice  fellow, 
but  I  grudge  him  an  automobile,  which  goes. 

I  just  couldn't  write  to  you  that  week  in  Paris;  not 
that  I  was  too  busy — I'm  never  too  busy  to  write  to 
my  dear  old  boy.  But  I  knew  you'd  expect  to  hear 
how  I  enjoyed  the  trip,  and  I  didn't  want  to  tell  you 
the  bad  news  till  perhaps  I  might  have  good  news  to 
add.  Consequently  I  cabled  whenever  a  writing-day 
came  round. 

Well,  at  last  Rattray  vowed  that  the  car  was  in 
good  condition,  and  we  might  start.  It  was  a  whole 
week  since  I'd  seen  the  monster,  and  it  looked  so 
handsome  as  it  sailed  up  to  the  hotel  door  that  my 
pride  in  it  came  back.  It  was  early  in  the  morning, 
so  there  weren't  many  people  about,  but  I  shouldn't 
have  had  cause  to  be  ashamed  if  there  had  been. 
We  went  off  in  fine  style,  and  it  was  delicious  driving 
through  the  Bois,  en  route  for  Orleans,  by  way  of 
Versailles.  After  all,  I  said  to  myself,  perhaps  the 
car  hadn't,  been  to  blame  for  our  horrid  experience. 
No  car  was  perfect,  even  Rattray  admitted  that. 
Some  little  thing  had  gone  wrong  with  ours,  and  the 
poor  thing  had  been  misunderstood. 

We  had  traversed  the  Bois,  and  were  mounting 
the  long  hill  of  Suresnes,  when  "  squeak!  squeak  !  "  a 
little  insinuating  sound  began  to  mingle  with  my 
reflections.  I  was  too  happy,  with  the  sweet  wind 
in  my  face,  to  pay  attention  at  first,  but  the  noise 
kept  on,  insisting  on  being  noticed.  Then  it  occurred 
to  me  that  I'd  heard  it  before  in  moments  of  baleful 
memory. 


The  Lightning  Conductor  27 

"I  believe  that  horrid  crank- head  is  getting  hot," 
said  I.  "Are  you  sure  it  doesn't  need  oil?  " 

" Sure, miss," returned Rattray.  "The  crank-head's 
all  right.  That  squeak  ain't  anything  to  worry 
about." 

So  I  didn't  worry,  and  we  bowled  along  for  twenty 
perfect  minutes,  then  something  went  smash  inside, 
and  we  stopped  dead.  It  was  the  crank-head,  which 
was  nearly  red  hot.  The  crank  had  snapped  like  a 
carrot.  I  was  too  prostrate,  and,  I  trust,  too  proud 
to  say  things  to  Rattray,  though  if  he  had  just  made 
sure  that  the  lubricator  was  working  properly,  we 
should  have  been  saved. 

Fortunately  we  had  lately  passed  a  big  garage  by 
the  Pont  de  Suresnes,  and  we  "coasted"  to  it  down 
the  hill,  although  of  course  our  engine  was  paralysed. 
You  couldn't  expect  it  to  work  without  a  head,  even 
though  that  head  was  only  a  "crank!  " 

For  once  Rattray  was  somewhat  subdued.  He 
knew  he  was  in  fault,  and  meekly  proposed  to  take  an 
electric  tram  back  to  Paris,  there  to  see  if  a  new  crank 
could  be  bought  to  fit,  otherwise  one  would  have 
to  be  made,  and  it  would  take  two  or  three  days. 
At  this  I  remarked  icily  that  in  the  latter  case  we 
would  not  proceed  with  the  trip,  and  he  could  return 
to  London.  Usually  he  retorted,  if  I  showed, the  slight 
est  sign  of  disapproval,  but  now  he  merely  asked  if 
I  would  give  Jiim  the  money  to  buy  the  new  crank  if 
it  were  obtainable. 

I  had  only  a  couple  of  louis  in  change  and  a  five- 
hundred  franc  note,  so  I  gave  that  to  him,  and  he  was 
to  return  as  soon  as  possible,  probably  in  an  hour 


28  The  Lightning  Conductor 

and  a  half.  Aunt  Mary  and  I  found  our  way  gloom 
ily  to  a  little  third-class  restaurant,  where  we  had 
coffee  and  things.  Time  crept  on  and  brought  no 
Rattray.  When  two  hours  had  passed  I  walked 
back  to  the  garage,  but  the  proprietor  had  no  news. 
The  car  was  standing  in  the  place  where  they  had 
dragged  it,  and  I  climbed  up  to  sit  in  gloomy  state 
on  the  back  seat,  feeling  as  if  I  couldn't  bear  to  go 
back  to  Aunt  Mary  until  something  had  happened. 
Then  something  did  happen,  but  not  the  thing  I  had 
wanted.  The  very  car  that  had  stopped  when  we 
were  in  trouble  on  the  hill  of  the  blacksmiths,  far  on 
the  other  side  of  Paris,  more  than  a  week  ago,  came 
gliding  smoothly,  deliciously  into  the  garage. 

The  same  two  leather-capped  and  coated  men 
were  in  it,  master  and  chauffeur,  I  thought.  The 
madame  of  the  establishment  was  talking  sympa 
thetically  to  me,  but  I  heard  the  voice  of  the  man 
who  had  asked  me  if  he  could  help  (the  one  I  had 
taken  for  the  master)  inquiring  in  French  for  a  par 
ticular  kind  of  essence.  Then  I  didn't  hear  any 
more.  He  and  the  garage  man  were  speaking  in 
lower  tones,  and  besides,  the  shrill  condolences  of 
madame  drowned  their  murmurs.  She  was  loudly 
giving  it  as  her  opinion  that  my  chauffeur  had  run 
off  with  my  money,  and  that,  unless  I  had  some 
means  of  tracing  him,  I  should  never  look  upon  his 
face  again.  I  did  wish  that  she  would  be  quiet,  at 
least  until  the  fortunate  automobilists  rolled  away 
like  kings  in  their  chariot;  but  I  couldn't  make  her 
stop,  and  I  was  certain  they  heard  every  word.  I 
even  imagined  that  they  had  deserted  the  subject  of 


The  Lightning  Conductor  29 

petrol  for  my  troubles,  because  I  could  see  out  of  a 
corner  of  an  eye  that  the  proprietor  in  his  conversa 
tion  with  them  nodded  more  than  once  towards  my 
car,  in  which  I  sat  ingloriously  enthroned  like  a  sort 
of  captive  Zenobia. 

They  seemed  to  be  a  long  time  buying  their  petrol, 
anyway,  and  presently  my  worst  fears  were  confirmed. 
The  man  who  had  spoken  to  me  on  the  fatal  hill 
came  forward,  repeating  himself  (like  history)  by 
taking  off  his  cap  and  wearing  exactly  the  same 
half-shy,  half-interested  expression  as  before. 

He  said  "er"  once  or  twice,  and  then  informed 
me  that  the  proprietor  had  been  telling  him  what 
a  scrape  I  was  in,  or  words  to  that  effect.  He 
offered  to  drive  into  Paris  on  his  car,  which  would 
only  take  a  few  minutes,  go  to  the  place  where  my 
chauffeur  had  intended  to  buy  the  crank,  see  whether 
he  had  been  there,  and  if  so,  what  delayed  him. 
Then,  if  anything  were  wrong,  he  would  come  back 
and  let  me  know. 

I  said  that  I  couldn't  possibly  let  him  take  so 
much  trouble,  but  he  would  hardly  listen.  He  knew 
the  address  of  the  place  from  the  garage  man,  who 
had  recommended  it  to  Rattray,  and  almost  before 
I  knew  what  had  happened  the  car  and  the  dusty, 
leather-clad  men  were  off. 

There  was  nothing  for  me  to  do  but  to  go  back 
to  Aunt  Mary,  which  I  did  in  no  happy  frame  of 
mind.  * 

That  Napier  must  have  tossed  its  bonnet  at  the 
legal  limit  of  speed,  for  in  less  than  an  hour  it  drew 
up  before  this  restaurant.  Out  jumped  my  one  of 


30  The  Lightning  Conductor 

the  two  men  and  came  into  the  room  where  Aunt 
Mary  and  I  had  sat  so  long  reading  old  French 
papers. 

"I'm  sorry  to  have  to  tell  you,"  said  he  in  his  nice 
voice,  "that  your  man  appears  to  be  a  scoundrel. 
He  hasn't  been  to  Le  Sage's,  nor  to  another  place 
which  I  tried.  I'm  afraid  he  has  gone  off  with  your 
money,  and  that  your  only  hope  of  getting  it  will  be 
to  track  the  fellow  with  a  detective." 

"I  don't  want  to  track  him,"  I  said.  "I  never 
want  to  see  him  again,  and  I  don't  care  about  the 
money.  I'll  engage  another  chauffeur.  There  must 
be  plenty  in  Paris." 

As  I  said  this  he  had  rather  a  curious  look  on 
his  face.  I  didn't  understand  it  then,  but  I  did 
afterwards.  "I'm  afraid  you'll  find  very  few  who 
understand  your  make  of  car,"  he  said,  "which  is 
German,  and — er — perhaps  not  up  to  the  very  latest 
date." 

"I  can  believe  anything  of  it,"  said  I.  "But  now 
the  crank's  broken,  and " 

"I've  taken  the  liberty  of  bringing  another,  which 
we  took  out  of  a  similar  car,"  broke  in  the  man. 
"The  proprietor  of  the  garage  across  the  way  thinks 
he  can  put  it  in  for  you;  if  not,  I  can  help  him,  for 
I  once  drove  a  car  of  the  same  make  as  yours,  and 
have  reason  to  remember  it." 

I  burst  into  thanks,  and  when  I  had  used  up  most 
of  lay  prettiest  adjectives  I  asked  how  long  the 
work  would  take.  He  thought  only  a  few  hours, 
and  my  car  might  be  ready  to  start  again  in  the 
afternoon. 


The  Lightning  Conductor  31 

I  clapped  my  hands  at  this;  then  I  could  feel  my 
face  fall.  (Funny  expression,  isn't  it? — almost  as 
absurd  as  I  "dropped  my  eyes";  but  I  think  I  did 
that  too.)  "How  lovely!"  said  I.  And  then,  "But 
what  good  if  I  can't  get  a  chauffeur  f  " 

The  man's  face  grew  red — not  a  bricky,  ugly  red; 
but  as  he  was  very  brown  already,  it  only  turned 
a  nice  mahogany  colour,  and  made  him  look  quite 
engaging.  "If  you  would  take  me,"  he  said,  "I  am 
at  your  service." 

I  never  was  more  astonished  in  my  life,  and  I  just 
sat  and  stared  at  him.  I  was  sure  he  must  be  making 
fun. 

"Of  course  you'll  think  it  strange,"  he  went  on  in 
a  hurry;  "but  the  fact  is,  I'm  out  of  a  job " 

"Why,  are  you  a  real  chauffeur — a  mechanic?" 
I  couldn't  help  breaking  in  on  him.  I  almost  blurted 
out  that  I  had  taken  him  for  the  master,  which 
would  have  been  horrid,  of  course,  and  suddenly 
I  was  ashamed  of  myself,  for  I  had  been  treating 
him  exactly  like  an  equal;  and  perhaps  I  was  silly 
enough  to  be  a  tiny  bit  disappointed  too,  for  I'll 
confess  to  you,  Dad,  that  I'd  had  visions  of  his  being 
someone  rather  grand,  which  would  have  spread  a 
little  jam  of  romance  over  the  stale,  dry  bread  of 
this  disagreeable  experience.  Anyhow,  this  man  was 
much  better  looking  than  his  companion,  whom  I 
knew  now  was  the  master.  He  wasn't  a  gorgeous 
person,  like  Mr.  Cecil-Lanstown,  but  I'd  certainly 
thought  he  had  rather  a  distinguished  air.  However, 
these  Englishmen,  even  the  peasants,  are  sometimes 
such  splendid  types — clear-cut  features,  brave,  keen 


32  The  Lightning  Conductor 

eyes,  and  all  that,  you  know,  as  if  their  ancestors 
might  have  been  Vikings. 

While  I  was  thinking,  he  was  telling  me  that  he 
was  a  chauffeur,  sure  enough,  and  that  this  was  the 
last  day  of  his  engagement  with  his  master,  who 
didn't  wish  to  take  a  mechanic  any  farther.  His 
name,  he  said,  was  James  Brown.  He  had  had  a 
good  deal  of  experience  with  several  kinds  of  cars — 
my  sort  was  the  first  he'd  ever  driven;  he  knew  it 
well,  and  if  I  cared  to  try  him,  he  could  get  me  a  very 
good  reference  from  his  master,  Mr.  Winston. 

"Mr.  Winston!  "  I  repeated.  "Is  your  master  the 
Honourable  John  Winston? " 

"That  is  his  name,"  he  answered,  though  he 
looked  so  odd  when  he  said  it  that  I  thought  it 
wise  to  mention  that  I  knew  Mr.  Winston's  mother, 
so  he  would  have  a  sort  of  warning  if  he  weren't 
speaking  the  truth.  But  he  didn't  look  like  a  man 
who  would  tell  fibs,  and  to  cut  a  long  story  short, 
he  brought  out  a  letter  which  the  Honourable  John 
Winston  had  already  given  him.  It  was  very  short, 
as  if  it  had  been  written  in  a  hurry,  but  nothing 
could  have  been  more  satisfactory.  Brown,  as  I 
suppose  I  must  call  him,  said  that  he  would  be 
able  to  start  with  us  as  soon  as  the  car  was  ready, 
and  when  I  mentioned  where  I  wanted  to  go  he 
remarked  that  he  had  been  all  through  the  chateau 
country  several  times  on  a  motor-car.  One  can  see 
from  the  way  he  talks  that  he's  an  intelligent,  com 
petent  young  man  (he  can't  be  more  than  twenty- 
eight  or  nine)  and  knows  his  business  thoroughly. 
I  think  I'm  very  lucky  to  get  him,  don't  you? 


The  Lightning  Conductor  33 

Now  you  will  understand  the  address  at  the  top 
of  this  long  letter;  and  I  am  writing  it  while  James 
Brown  and  the  garage  man  fit  the  new  crank  into 
the  car.  I  must  have  been  scribbling  away  for  two 
hours,  so  almost  any  minute  my  new  chauffeur  may 
arrive  to  say  chat  we  can  start.  I  shall  write  again 
soon  to  tell  you  how  he  turns  out,  and  all  about 
things  in  general;  and  when  I  don't  write  I'll  cable. 
Your  battered  but  hopeful 

MOLLY. 


FROM  JACK  WINSTON  TO  LORD  LANE 

ORLEANS,  November  29. 
My  dear  Montie, 

I  have  so  many  things  to  tell  you  I  scarcely 
know  where  to  begin.  First  let  me  announce  that 
I  am  in  for  an  adventure — a  real  flesh  and  blood 
adventure  into  which  I  plump  without  premeditation, 
but  an  adventure  of  so  delightful  a  kind  that  I  hope 
it  may  continue  for  many  a  day.  I  know  you'll  say 
at  once,  "That  means  Woman";  and  you're  right. 
But  I  won't  go  to  the  heart  of  the  story  at  once; 
I'll  begin  at  the  beginning.  First,  though,  a  word  as 
to  yourself.  I  miss  you  enormously.  It  is  a  cruel 
stroke  of  fate  that  you  should  have  been  ordered 
to  Davos  after  you  had  made  all  your  plans  to  go 
with  me  on  my  new  car  to  the  Riviera.  I  still  think 
that  a  trip  on  which  you  would  have  been  in  the 
open  air  all  day  was  just  as  likely  to  check  incipient 
chest  trouble  as  the  cold  dryness  of  Davos;  but  no 
doubt  you  were  right  to  do  as  the  doctors  told  you. 
I  shall  look  eagerly  for  letters  from  you  with  bulle 
tins  of  your  progress.  As  I  can't  have  you  with  me, 
the  next  best  thing  will  be  to  write  to  you  often; 
besides,  you  said  that  you  would  like  to  have  fre 
quent  reports  of  my  doings  in  France,  with  "plenty 
of  detail." 

34 


The  Lightning  Conductor  35 

Well,  the  new  car  is  a  stunner.  I  haven't  so  far 
a  fault  to  find  with  her.  She  takes  most  hills  on  the 
third,  which  is  very  good;  for  though  we  are  only 
two  up — Almond  and  I — I  have  luggage  in  the 
tonneau  almost  equal  to  the  weight  of  another 
passenger.  Between  Dieppe  and  Paris  she  licked  up 
the  kilometres  as  a  running  flame  licks  up  dry  wood. 
She  runs  sweetly  and  with  hardly  any  noise.  The 
ignition  seems  to  work  perfectly;  she  carries  water 
and  petrol  enough  for  150  miles.  I  think  at  last 
in  the  Napier  I  have  found  the  ideal  car,  and  you 
know  I  have  searched  long  enough.  Almond  timed 
her  on  the  level  bit  at  Acheres,  and  it  was  at  the  rate 
of  over  forty-five  miles  an  hour — not  bad  for  a 
touring  car. 

It  was  between  Dieppe  and  Paris  (somewhere 
between  Gisors  and  Meru)  that  the  adventure  began. 
I  was  flying  up  a  slope  of  perhaps  one  in  fifteen, 
when  I  became  aware  of  Beauty  in  Distress.  An 
antediluvian  car,  which  was  recognisable  by  its 
rearward  protuberance  as  something  archaic,  was 
stationary  on  the  hill;  two  ladies  sat  on  an  extraor 
dinarily  high  seat  behind  like  a  throne,  and  a  me 
chanic  was  slouching  towards  a  smith's  forge  by 
the  roadside.  One  motorist,  of  course,  must  always 
offer  help  to  another — to  pass  a  stranded  car  would 
be  like  ignoring  signals  of  distress  at  sea;  besides, 
one  of  the  ladies  looked  young  and  seemed  to  have 
a  charming  figure.  So,  having  passed  them,  I  pulled 
up  and  went  back. 

The  ladies  said  "America"  to  me  as  plainly  as 
if  they  had  spoken.  They  were  most  professionally 


36  The  Lightning  Conductor 

got  up,  the  elder  so  befurred  and  goggled  that  I  could 
see  only  the  tip  of  her  nose;  the  younger  with  a 
wonderfully  fetching  grey  fur  coat,  a  thing  that 
I  believe  women  call  a  "  toque,"  and  a  double  veil, 
which  allowed  only  a  tantalising  hint  of  a  piquant 
profile  and  a  pair  of  bewildering  grey  eyes.  They — 
or  rather  the  younger  one — met  my  profferred  help 
with  a  rather  curt  refusal,  but  the  voice  that  uttered 
it  was  musical  to  a  point  rare  among  the  American 
women  of  the  eastern  States,  and  these  were  New 
York  or  nowhere.  There  was  nothing  for  me  to  do 
except  retire;  but  Almond,  looking  back  as  we  sped 
away,  said,  "Why,  sir,  blowed  if  they  haven't  got 
those  three  smiths  pushing  them  up  the  hill  !  "  From 
which  I  argued  that  Beauty  was  very  jealous  for  the 
reputation  of  her  car.  This  is  the  end  of  Chapter  I. 
Chapter  II.  opens  at  Suresnes,  some  days  later.  I 
was  starting  for  Cannes,  and  had  just  crossed  the 
bridge  when,  in  the  yard  of  a  garage  on  the  left-hand 
side  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  I  detected  again  Beauty 
in  Distress — the  same  Beauty,  but  a  different  Distress. 
There  was  the  high  and  portly  car,  with  Beauty 
perched  up  in  it  alone — Beauty  in  the  attitude 
appropriate  to  Patience  smiling  at  Grief.  Almost 
before  I  knew  what  I  did,  I  turned  my  car  into  the 
yard  and  pulled  up  near  her,  making  an  excuse  of 
asking  for  Stelline,  though,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
Almond  had  filled  up  the  tank  only  half  an  hour 
before  at  the  Automobile  Club.  The  manager  of 
the  garage  told  me  that  Beauty's  car  was  stranded 
with  a  broken  crank.  Now  Almond  had  caught 
sight  of  her  mtcanicien  the  previous  time  we  met, 


The  Lightning  Conductor  37 

and  knew  him  for  a  wrong  un  in  London;  therefore 
when  I  heard  he  had  gone  off  to  Paris  with  five 
hundred  francs  to  buy  a  new  crank,  I  thought  the 
situation  serious.  So,  despite  the  former  snub,  I 
again  offered  my  services. 

SHE  had  her  veil  up,  and,  by  Jove!  she  was  good 
to  look  upon!  The  eyes  were  deep  and  candid;  the 
curve  of  the  red  lips  (a  little  subdued  now)  suggested 
a  delightful  sense  of  humour;  her  brown  hair  rippled 
over  the  ears  and  escaped  in  curly  tendrils  on  her 
white  neck.  The  girl  was  delicately  balanced,  finely 
wrought,  tempered  like  a  sword-blade.  Something 
in  my  inner  workings  seemed  to  cry  out  with  pleas 
ure  at  her  perfections;  a  very  unusual  nervousness 
got  hold  of  me  when  I  spoke  to  her. 

It  ended  in  my  flying  off  to  the  Avenue  de  la 
Grande  Arme'e  to  search  for  the  missing  man  and 
another  crank.  You  remember  my  earliest  auto 
mobile  experiences  were  with  a  Benz,  as  so  many 
people's  have  been,  and  I  knew  where  to  go.  Noth 
ing  had  been  heard  of  the  man;  I  bribed  a  fellow  to 
take  a  crank  out  of  another  car,  and  on  the  way 
back  a  wild  idea  occurred  to  me.  I  was  obliged  to 
sketch  it  to  the  astonished  Almond,  commanded 
him  to  deadly  secrecy,  then  offered  my  own  services 
to  the  beautiful  American  girl  in  place  of  her  former 
chauffeur,  absconded.  The  whole  thing  came  into 
my  mind  in  a  flash  as  I  was  spinning  through  the 
Bois,  and  *I  hadn't  time  to  think  of  the  difficulties 
in  which  I  might  get  landed.  I  only  felt  that  this 
was  the  prettiest  girl  I  had  ever  seen,  and  deter 
mined  at  any  price  to  see  a  good  deal  more  of  her. 


38  The  Lightning  Conductor 

Only  one  way  of  doing  that  occurred  to  me.  I 
couldn't  say  to  her,  "I  am  Mr.  John  Winston,  a 
perfectly  respectable  person.  I  have  been  seized 
with  a  strong  and  sudden  admiration  for  your 
beauty.  Will  you  let  me  go  with  you  on  your  trip 
through  France?"  Even  an  American  girl  would 
have  been  staggered  at  that.  The  situation  called 
for  an  immediate  decision — either  I  was  to  lose  the 
girl,  or  resort  to  a  trick.  You  quite  see  how  it  was, 
don't  you? 

In  the  first  instant  there  came  a  complication. 
I  had  stopped  my  car  a  minute  in  the  Bois  to  scrib 
ble  a  character  for  my  new  self — James  Brown, 
from  my  old  self — John  Winston;  but  as  soon  as  I 
presented  this  piece  of  writing  to  back  up  my  appli 
cation  for  the  place,  Miss  Molly  Randolph  (I  may 
as  well  give  you  her  name)  exclaimed  that  she  knew 
my  mother.  Such  is  life!  It  seems  they  met  in 
Paris.  But  the  die  was  cast,  and  she  engaged  me. 
I  trusted  the  Napier  to  Almond,  giving  him  general 
instructions  to  keep  as  near  to  us  as  he  could,  with 
out  letting  himself  be  seen,  and  for  the  last  two  days 
I  have  been  chauffeur,  mtcanicien,  call  it  what  you 
will,  to  the  most  charming  girl  in  this  exceedingly 
satisfactory  world. 

By  this  time  I  know  that  your  eyes  are  wide  open. 
I  can  picture  you  stretched  in  your  chaise  tongue  at 
Davos  in  the  sunshine  reading  this  and  whistling 
softly  to  yourself.  I  have  no  time  to  write  more 
to-night;  the  rest  must  wait. 

Your  very  sincere  and  excited  friend, 

JACK  WINSTON. 


HOTEL  DB  LONDRES,  AMBOISE, 

December  3 

My  dear  Montie, 

The  plot  thickens.  She  is  Superb.  But  things 
are  happening  which  I  didn't  foresee,  and  which  1 
don't  like.  I  have  to  suppress  a  Worm,  and  sup 
pressed  he  shall  be.  I  am  writing  this  letter  to  you 
in  my  bedroom.  It  is  three  in  the  morning,  and  a 
lovely  night — more  like  spring  than  winter.  Through 
my  wide-open  window  the  only  sound  that  comes  in 
is  the  lapping  of  the  lazy  Loire  against  the  piers 
of  the  great  stone  bridge.  I  have  not  been  to  bed; 
I  shall  not  go  to  bed,  for  I  have  something  to  do 
when  dawn  begins.  Though  I  have  worked  hard 
to-day,  I  am  not  tired;  I  am  too  excited  for  fatigue. 
But  I  must  give  you  a  sketch  of  what  has  happened 
during  the  last  few  days.  It  is  a  comfort  and  a 
pleasure  to  me  to  be  able  to  unburden  myself  to 
your  sympathetic  heart.  You  will  read  what  I  write 
with  patience,  I  know,  and  with  interest,  I  hope. 
That  you  will  often  smile,  I  am  sure. 

I  sent  you  a  line  from  Orleans,  telling  you  that 
I  had  got  myself  engaged  as  chauffeur  to  Miss  Molly 
Randolph  at  Suresnes.  Well,  the  garage  man  and 
I  managed*  to  fit  the  new  crank  into  my  lovely  em 
ployer's  abominable  car,  and  about  three  or  four  in 
the  afternoon  we  were  ready  to  take  the  road.  As 

39 


4O  The  Lightning  Conductor 

I  tucked  the  rug  round  the  ladies  Miss  Randolph 
threw  me  an  appealing  look.  "My  aunt,"  she  said, 
"declares  that  it  is  quite  useless  to  go  on,  as  she  is 
sure  we  shall  never  get  anywhere.  But  it  is  a  good 
car,  isn't  it,  Brown,  and  we  shall  get  to  Tours,  shan't 
we?"  "It's  a  great  car,  miss,"  I  said  quite  truth 
fully  and  very  heartily.  "With  this  car  I'd  guar 
antee  to  take  you  comfortably  all  round  Europe." 
Heaven  knows  that  this  boast  was  the  child  of  hope 
rather  than  experience;  but  it  would  have  been  too 
maddening  to  have  the  whole  thing  knocked  on  the 
head  at  the  beginning  by  the  fears  of  a  timorous 
elderly  lady.  "You  hear,  Aunt  Mary,  what  Brown 
says,"  said  the  girl,  with  the  air  of  one  who  brings 
an  argument  to  a  close,  and  I  hastened  to  start  the 
car. 

By  Jove  !  The  compression  was  strong  !  I  wasn't 
prepared  for  it  after  the  simple  twist  of  the  hand, 
which  is  all  that  is  necessary  to  start  the  Napier, 
and  the  recoil  of  the  starting-handle  nearly  broke 
my  wrist.  But  I  got  the  engine  going  with  the 
second  try,  jumped  to  my  place  in  front  of  the 
ladies  (you  understand  that  it  is  a  phaeton-seated 
car),  and  started  very  gingerly  up  the  hill.  Though 
I  was  once  accustomed  to  a  belt-driven  Benz  (you 
remember  my  little  3^  horse-power  "halfpenny 
Benz,"  as  I  came  to  call  it),  that  had  the  ordinary 
fast  and  loose  pulleys,  while  this  German  monstros 
ity  is  driven  by  a  jockey-pulley,  an  appliance  fiend 
ishly  contrived,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  especially  for 
breaking  belts  quickly.  The  car  too  is  steered  by 
a  tiller  worked  with  the  left  hand,  and  there  are  so 


The  Lightning  Conductor  41 

many  different  levers  to  manipulate  that  to  drive  the 
thing  properly  one  ought  to  be  a  modern  Briareus. 

I  must  say,  though,  that  the  thing  has  power.  It 
bumbled  in  excellent  style  on  the  second  speed  up 
the  long  hill  of  Suresnes;  but  when  we  got  to  the 
level  and  changed  speeds,  I  put  the  jockey  on  a 
trifle  too  quickly,  and  snick!  went  the  belt.  I  was 
awfully  anxious  that  my  new  mistress  shouldn't  think 
me  a  duffer,  that  she  shouldn't  lose  confidence  in  her 
car  and  me,  and  determine  to  bring  her  tour  to  an 
abrupt  end;  so  as  soon  as  I  felt  the  snap  I  turned 
round  saying  it  was  only  a  broken  belt  that  could  be 
mended  in  no  time.  She  smiled  delightfully.  "How 
nice  of  you  to  take  it  so  well  !  "  she  said.  "Rattray 
seemed  to  think  that  when  a  belt  broke  the  end  of 
the  world  had  come."  v 

Now  to  mend  a  belt  seems  the  easiest  thing  going, 
and  so  it  is  when  you  merely  have  to  hammer  a  fas 
tening  through  it  and  turn  the  ends  over.  But  in 
this  car  you  have  to  make  the  joint  with  coils  of 
twisted  wire.  Simple  as  it  is  to  do  in  a  workshop, 
this  belt-mending  is  a  most  irritating  affair  by  the 
roadside,  and  when  done  I  found  by  subsequent 
experiences  that  the  wires  wear  through  and  tear 
out  after  less  than  a  hundred  miles. 

On  this  first  day,  not  having  the  hang  of  the  job, 
I  found  it  disgustingly  tedious.  To  begin  with,  to 
get  at  the  pulleys  I  had  to  open  the  back  of  the  car, 
and  that  nfeant  lifting  down  all  the  carefully  strapped 
luggage  and  depositing  it  by  the  roadside.  Then  the 
wire  and  tools  were  either  in  a  cupboard  under  the 
floor  of  the  car  or  in  a  box  under  the  ladies'  seats, 


42  The  Lightning  Conductor 

which  meant  disturbing  them  every  time  one  wanted 
anything.  How  different  to  my  beautifully  planned 
Napier,  where  every  part  is  easily  accessible  ! 

The  mending  of  that  third  speed-belt  took  me 
half  an  hour,  and  after  that  we  made  some  progress; 
but  dusk  coming  on,  I  suggested  to  the  ladies  that 
as  there  was  very  little  fun  in  travelling  in  the 
dark,  I  thought  they  had  better  stay  the  night  at 
Versailles,  going  on  to  Orleans  the  next  day.  They 
agreed. 

I  had  thought  out  plans  for  my  own  comfort.  I 
knew  that  at  some  of  the  smaller  country  inns  there 
would  be  no  rooms  for  servants,  and  that  I  should 
have  to  eat  with  the  ladies,  which  suited  me  exactly. 
In  the  larger  towns,  rather  than  mess  with  the 
couriers,  valets,  and  maids,  I  should  simply  instal 
my  employers  in  one  hotel,  then  quietly  go  off  myself 
to  another.  That  is  what  I  did  at  Versailles.  I  saw 
the  ladies  into  the  best  hotel  in  the  town,  drove  the 
car  into  the  stable-yard,  and  went  out  to  watch  for 
Almond.  He  had  followed  us  warily  and  had 
stopped  the  Napier  in  a  side  street  two  hundred 
yards  away.  I  joined  him,  and  we  drove  to  a  quiet 
hotel  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  Miss  Randolph's. 
I  had  my  luggage  taken  in,  bathed,  changed,  and 
dined  like  a  prince,  instructing  Almond  to  be  up  at 
six  next  morning  and  thoroughly  clean  and  oil  the 
German  car,  making  a  lot  of  new  fastenings  in  spare 
belts.  Later  in  the  day  he  is  to  follow  us  to  Orleans 
with  the  Napier.  Thus  I  live  the  double  life — by 
day  the  leather-clad  chauffeur;  by  night  the  English 
gentleman  travelling  on  his  own  car.  The  planvs 


"THE    LONG   LEVEL   ROAD    TO    ORLEANS.' 


The  Lightning  Conductor  43 

seem  well  laid;  I  cover  my  tracks  carefully;  I  don't 
see  how  detection  can  come. 

With  a  good  deal  of  inward  fear  and  trembling  I 
drove  the  car  at  eight  the  next  morning  to  the  door 
of  Miss  Randolph's  hotel.  She  and  her  masked  and 
goggled  aunt  appeared  at  once,  and  in  five  minutes 
the  luggage  was  strapped  on  behind. 

"Now  please  understand,"  said  the  girl,  with  a 
twinkle  of  merriment,  in  her  eyes,  "that  this  is  to  be 
a  pilgrimage,  not  a  meteor  flight.  Even  if  this  car's 
capable  of  racing,  which  I  guess  it  isn't,  I  don't  want 
to  race.  I  just  want  to  glide;  I  want  to  see  every 
thing;  to  drink  in  impressions  every  instant." 

This  suited  me  exactly,  for  it  gave  me  a  chance 
of  humouring  and  studying  the  uncouth  thing  that 
I  was  called  upon  to  drive.  I  had  come  out  to 
Versailles  to  avoid  the  direct  route  to  Orleans  by 
Etampes,  which  is  pavt  nearly  all  the  way,  and  prac 
tically  impassable  for  automobiles.  From  Versailles 
there  is  a  good  route  by  Dourdan  and  Angerville, 
which,  if  not  picturesque,  at  least  passes  through 
agreeable,  richly  cultivated  country.  The  road  is 
exceedingly  accidenUe  on  leaving  Versailles,  and  I 
drove  with  great  care  down  the  dangerous  descent 
to  Chateaufort,  and  also  down  the  hill  at  St.  Re*my, 
which  leads  to  the  valley  of  the  Yvette.  Till  beyond 
Dourdan  the  road  is  one  long  switchback,  and  it  is 
but  fair  to  record  that  the  solid  German  car  climbed 
the  hills  with*a  kind  of  lumbering  sturdiness  much  to 
its  credit.  At  Dourdan  we  lunched,  and  soon  after 
entered  on  the  long,  level  road  to  Orleans.  The  car 
travelled  well — for  it,  and  the  day's  record  of  sixty- 


44  The  Lightning  Conductor 

seven  miles  was  only  three  breakages  of  belts.  To 
my  relief  and  surprise  we  actually  got  to  Orleans  in 
time  for  dinner.  I  was  a  proud  man  when  I  drove 
my  employers  into  the  old-fashioned  courtyard  of 
the  d'Orleans.  Almond,  I  knew,  was  at  the  St. 
Aignan  with  the  Napier,  and  there  I  presently  joined 
him,  to  hear  that  he  had  done  the  total  run  from 
Versailles,  with  an  hour's  stop  for  lunch,  in  under  the 
four  hours,  the  car  running  splendidly  all  the  way. 
Almond  does  not  at  all  understand  why  he  is  left 
alone,  and  why  I  have  gone  off  to  drive  two  ladies  in 
an  out-of-date  German  car  which  any  self-respecting 
automobilist  would  be  ashamed  to  be  seen  on  in 
France.  He  looks  at  me  queerly,  and  would  like  to 
ask  questions;  but  being  a  good  servant  as  well  as  a 
good  mechanic,  he  doesn't,  and  kindly  puts  up  with 
his  master's  whims. 

My  orders  were  to  be  ready  for  the  ladies  at  ten 
the  next  morning,  and  when  punctually  to  the 
moment  I  drove  the  car  into  the  courtyard,  I  found 
them  waiting  for  me.  Miss  Randolph  volunteered 
the  news  that  she  and  her  aunt  had  been  round  the 
town  in  a  cab  to  see  the  sites  connected  with  the 
Maid,  but  that  she  had  found  it  very  difficult  to 
picture  things  as  they  were,  so  modernised  is  the 
town. 

The  morning  we  left  Orleans  was  exquisite.  The 
car  went  well;  the  magnificent  Loire  was  brimming 
from  bank  to  bank,  and  not  meandering  among  dis 
figuring  sand-banks,  as  it  does  later  in  the  year;  the 
wide,  green  landscape  shone  through  a  glitter  of 
sunshine;  and  here  and  there  in  the  blue  sky  floated 


The  Lightning  Conductor  45 

a  mass  of  tumbled  white  cloud.  Our  little  party  at 
first  was  silent.  I  think  the  beauty  of  the  scene 
influenced  us  all,  even  Aunt  Mary;  and  the  thrum 
ming  of  the  motor  formed  a  monotonous  under 
current  to  our  thoughts. 

As  I've  told  you,  the  German  horror  is  phaeton- 
seated,  and  for  me  in  front  to  talk  comfortably  to 
any  lady  behind  is  not  easy.  In  driving,  one  can't 
take  one's  attention  much  off  the  road,  so  Miss 
Molly  has  to  lean  forward  and  shout  over  my  shoul 
der.  A  curious  and  delightful  kind  of  understand 
ing  is  growing  up  between  us.  You  know  that  the 
history  of  this  part  of  France  is  fairly  familiar  to 
me,  and  I've  already  done  the  castles  twice  before. 
What  I've  forgotten,  I've  studied  up  in  the  eve 
nings,  so  as  to  be  indispensable  to  Miss  Randolph. 
At  first  she  spoke  to  me  very  little,  only  a  kind  word 
now  and  then  such  as  one  throws  to  a  servant;  but 
I  could  hear  much  of  what  she  said  to  her  aunt,  and 
her  comments  on  things  in  general  were  sprightly 
and  original.  She  had  evidently  read  a  good  deal, 
looked  at  things  freshly,  and  brought  to  bear  on 
the  old  Court  history  of  France  her  own  quaint 
point  of  view.  Her  enthusiasm  was  ever  ready — 
bubbling,  but  never  gushing,  and  I  eagerly  kept  an 
ear  to  the  windward  not  to  miss  the  murmur  of  the 
geographical  and  historical  fountain  behind  my  back. 

"Aunt  Mary,"  on  the  contrary,  has  a  vague  and 
ordinary  mind,  being  more  interested  in  what  she  is 
going  to  have  for  luncheon  than  in  what  she  is  going 
to  see.  The  girl,  therefore,  is  rather  thrown  back 
upon  herself.  I  burned  to  join  in  the  talk,  yet  I 


4b  The  Lightning  Conductor 

dared  not  step  out  of  the  character  I  had  assumed. 
As  it  turned  out,  fortune  was  waiting  to  befriend  me. 

We  were  bowling  along  through  Meung,  when  I 
suddenly  spied  on  the  other  side  of  the  river  the 
square  and  heavy  mass  of  Notre  Dame  de  Clery, 
and  almost  without  thinking,  I  pointed  it  out  to 
Miss  Randolph.  "There  is  Cle'ry,"  I  said,  " where 
Louis  the  Eleventh  is  buried.  You  remember,  in 
Quentin  Durward  f  The  church  is  worth  seeing.  It's 
almost  a  pity  we  didn't  go  that  side  of  the  river." 
Then  I  stopped,  rather  confused,  fearing  I  had 
given  myself  away.  There  was  a  moment's  aston 
ished  silence,  and  I  was  afraid  Miss  Randolph  would 
see  the  back  of  my  neck  getting  red. 

"Why,  Brown!"  she  cried,  leaning  forward  over 
my  shoulder,  "you  know  these  things;  you've  read 
history?" 

"Oh  yes,  miss,"  I  said.  "I've  read  a  bit  here  and 
there,  such  books  as  I  could  get  hold  of.  I  was  al 
ways  interested  in  history  and  architecture,  and 
that  sort  of  thing.  Besides,"  I  went  on  hastily, 
"I've  travelled  this  road  before  with  a  gentleman 
who  knows  a  good  deal  about  this  part  of  France." 

I  don't  think  that  was  disingenuous,  was  it? — for 
I  hope  I've  a  right  to  call  myself  "a  gentleman." 

"How  lucky  for  us!"  cried  Miss  Randolph,  and 
I  heard  her  congratulating  herself  to  her  aunt,  be 
cause  they  had  got  hold  of  a  cicerone  and  chauffeur 
in  one.  After  that  she  began  to  talk  to  me  a  good 
deal,  and  now  she  seems  to  show  a  kind  of  wonder 
ing  interest  in  testing  the  amount  of  my  knowledge, 
which  I  take  care  to  clothe  in  common  words  and 


The  Lightning  Conductor  47 

not  to  show  too  much.  You  must  admit  the  situsu 
tion  grows  in  piquancy. 

At  Mer  we  crossed  the  Loire  by  the  suspension 
bridge  and  ran  the  eight  miles  to  Chambord,  mean 
ing  to  lunch  there,  and  go  on  to  Blois  after  seeing 
the  Chateau.  It  was  a  grand  performance  for  the 
car  to  run  nearly  three  hours  without  accident. 
While  luncheon  was  being  prepared  I  filled  up  the 
water-tanks  (even  this  simple  task  involved  lifting 
all  the  luggage  off  the  car),  washed  with  some  in 
valuable  Hudson's  soap,  which  I  had  brought  from 
my  own  car,  and  made  myself  smart  for  dejeuner. 
The  eating  business  will,  I  can  see,  be  one  of  my 
chief  difficulties.  At  Chambord,  for  instance,  in 
the  small  hotel,  there  is,  of  course,  no  special  room 
for  servants.  As  I  have  no  fondness  for  eating  in 
stuffy  kitchens  when  it  can  be  avoided,  I  wandered 
sedately  into  the  salle  d  manger,  where  Miss  Ran 
dolph  and  her  aunt  were  already  seated,  and  took 
a  place  at  the  further  end  of  the  same  long  table 
(we  were  the  only  people  in  the  room).  Aunt  Mary 
looked  for  an  instant  a  little  discomposed  at  the 
idea  of  lunching  with  her  niece's  hired  mechanic, 
but  Miss  Randolph,  noticing  this — she  sees  every 
thing — shot  me  a  welcoming  smile.  Then  the  pay 
ing  difficulty  is  an  odious  one.  Of  course,  at  the 
end  of  the  meal  my  bill  goes  to  her,  and  she  pays  for 

me:  " Mtcanicien,  dtjeuner "  so  much.     Picture 

it!  Of  course,  I  can't  protest,  as  this  is  the  custom; 
but  I  am  keeping  a  strict  account  of  all  her  expenses 
on  my  account,  and  one  day  shall  square  our  ac 
counts  somehow — I  don't  at  present  see  how.  I 


48  The  Lightning  Conductor 

have  formed  the  idea  that  by-and-by  I  may  offer  to 
act  also  as  courier,  relieving  her  of  the  bother  of 
making  payments,  and  so  on.  If  I  can  work  that, 
I'll  deduct  my  own  lot  and  pay  it  myself,  the 
chances  being  that  as  she  is  careless  about  money 
she  won't  notice  that  I've  done  so,  only  thinking, 
perhaps,  that  I  am  a  clever  chap  to  run  things  so 
cheaply. 

There's  another  thing  which  gives  me  the  "wom- 
bles,"  as  those  delightful  Miss  Bryants  used  to  call 
the  feeling  they  had  when  they  were  looking  for 
ward  to  any  event  with  a  mixture  of  excitement, 
fear,  and  embarrassment. 

Well,  I  have  the  "wombles"  when  I  think  of  the 
moment,  near  at  hand,  when  Miss  Randolph  will 
hand  me  my  weekly  wage,  which  I  have  put  at  the 
modest  figure  of  fifty  francs  a  week;  but  I  am  get 
ting  away  from  the  dejeuner  at  Chambord. 

We  had  just  finished  the  croute  au  pot,  when  there 
came  a  whirr!  outside,  upon  which  Miss  Randolph 
looked  questioningly  at  me.  "A  little  Pieper,"  I 
said.  "How  wonderful!"  she  exclaimed.  "Can 
you  really  tell  different  makes  of  cars  just  by  their 
sound?"  "Anyone  can  do  that,"  I  informed  her, 
"with  practice;  you  will  yourself  by  the  time  you 
get  to  the  end  of  this  journey.  Each  car  has  its 
characteristic  note.  The  De  Dion  has  a  kind  of 
screaming  whirr;  the  Benz  a  pulsing  throb;  the 
Panhard  a  thrumming;  a  tricycle  a  noise  like  a 
miniature  Maxim." 

The  driver  of  the  Pieper  came  in.  His  get-up 
was  the  last  outrageous  word  of  automobilism — 


The  Lightning  Conductor  49 

leather  cap  with  ear-flaps,  goggles  and  mask,  a  ridic 
ulously  shaggy  coat  of  fur,  and  long  boots  of  skin 
up  to  his  thighs — a  suitable  costume  for  an  Arctic 
explorer,  but  mighty  fantastic  in  a  mild  French 
winter.  You  know  these  posing  French  automo- 
bilists.  At  sight  of  a  beautiful  girl,  he  made  haste 
to  take  off  his  hat  and  goggles,  revealing  himself  as 
a  good-looking  fellow  with  abnormally  long  eye 
lashes,  which  I  somehow  resented.  He  preened 
himself  like  a  bird,  twisted  up  the  ends  of  his  black 
moustache,  and  prepared  for  conquest.  Catching 
Miss  Randolph's  eye,  he  smiled;  she  answered  with 
that  delightful  American  frankness  which  the  Italian 
and  the  Frenchman  misconstrue,  and  in  a  moment 
they  were  talking  motor-car  as  hard  as  they  could 
go.  The  poor  chauffeur  was  ignored. 

It  undermines  one's  sense  of  self-importance  to 
find  how  quickly  one  can  be  unclassed.  I  tasted 
at  this  moment  the  mortification  of  service.  Once 
in  an  hotel  at  Biarritz  I  gave  to  the  valet  de  chambre 
a  hat  and  a  couple  of  coats  that  I  didn't  want  any 
more.  They  were  in  good  condition,  and  he  was 
overwhelmed  with  the  value  of  the  gift.  "Monsieur 
is  too  kind,"  the  fellow  said;  "such  clothes  are  too 
good  for  me.  They  are  all  right  for  you,  but  for 
nous  autres!" — the  "others,"  who  neither  expect 
the  good  things  of  life  nor  envy  those  who  have 
them.  The  expression  implies  the  belief  that  the 
world  is  divided  into  two  parts — the  ones  and  the 
other  ones. 

Now,  as  I  heard  my  sweet  and  clever  little  lady 
babbling  automobilism  with  all  the  wisdom  of  an 


50  The  Lightning  Conductor 

amateur  of  six  weeks,  I  felt  that  I  was  indeed  one 
of  the  Others.  Though  the  Frenchman  was  to  me 
a  manifest  Worm  (in  that  he  was  supercilious,  puffed 
up  with  conceit,  taking  it  for  granted  that  women 
should  fall  down  and  worship  him)  and  a  ridiculous 
braggart,  I  had  to  see  her  receive  his  open  admira 
tion  with  equanimity  and  listen  to  his  stories  with 
credulity,  my  business  being  to  eat  in  silence  and 
"thank  Heaven"  (though  not  "fasting")  that  I  was 
allowed  in  the  presence  of  my  betters.  Still,  I  would 
have  gone  through  more  than  that  to  be  near  her, 
to  hear  her  talk,  and  see  her  smile,  for  frankly  this 
girl  begins  to  interest  me  as  no  other  woman  has. 

"Ah,  how  I  have  travelled  to-day!"  the  French 
man  said,  throwing  his  hands  wide  apart.  "I  left 
Paris  this  morning,  to-morrow  I  shall  be  in  Biarritz. 
To-day  I  have  killed  a  dog  and  three  hens.  On  the 
front  of  my  car  just  now  I  found  the  bones  and 
feathers  of  some  birds,  which  miscalculated  their 
distance  and  could  not  get  away  in  time."  Miss 
Randolph  gave  a  little  cry,  translating  for  her  aunt, 
who  has  no  French. 

"Shocking!"  ejaculated  Aunt  Mary.  "A  regular 
juggernaut." 

"  Your  car  does  not  go  as  fast  as  that,  mademoi 
selle?"  the  Frenchman  went  on.  "A  little  heavy, 
I  should  think;  a  slow  hill-climber?" 

"On  the  contrary,"  Miss  Randolph  fired  up. 
"Though  my  car  has — er — some  drawbacks,  it  goes 
splendidly  uphill,  doesn't  it,  Brown?" 

"That  is  its  strong  point,"  I  answered,  grateful 
for  the  unexpected  and  kindly  word  of  recognition 


The  Lightning  Conductor  51 

thrown  to  me,  one  of  the  Others;  but  the  Frenchman 
did  not  deign  to  notice  the  chauffeur. 

"Capital!"  cried  he.  "If  mademoiselle  be  willing, 
and  a  hill  can  be  found  in  the  neighbourhood,  I  should 
like  to  wager  my  Pieper  against  her  seven-horse 
power  German  car.  I  had  an  odd  experience  the 
other  day,"  he  went  on.  "My  motor  stopped  for 
want  of  essence;  luckily  it  was  in  a  village,  but 
there  wasn't  a  drop  of  essence  to  be  bought — all  the 
shops  were  sold  out.  What  do  you  think  I  did, 
mademoiselle?  I  filled  the  tank  with  absinthe  from 
a  caft,  and  got  home  on  that.  Not  many  would  have 
thought  of  it,  eh?" 

"Few  indeed,"  said  I  to  myself,  for  it  was  news 
to  me  that  his  carburetter  could  burn  heavy  oil. 
While  I  was  reflecting  that  automobiling,  like  fishing, 
is  a  pursuit  whose  followers  are  peculiarly  ready 
to  sacrifice  truth  on  the  altar  of  picturesqueness, 
luncheon  was  over,  and  we  all  rose.  With  what 
seemed  to  me  detestable  impertinence,  though  clearly 
not  understood  as  such  by  innocent  Miss  Randolph, 
the  Frenchman  sauntered  by  the  side  of  the  ladies 
as  if  to  go  with  them  to  the  Chateau.  Perhaps  my 
young  mistress  was  touched  by  the  look  of  gloom 
that  doubtless  clouded  my  insignificant  features,  for 
she  promptly  and  cordially  tendered  me  an  invitation 
to  go  with  them.  "  You  know,  Brown,"  she  said,  "  we 
look  on  you  as  our  guide  as  well  as  our  chauffeur" 
("and  I  must  be  your  watch-dog  too,  though  it  isn't 
in  the  contract,"  I  grumbled  to  myself,  "if  you  are 
going  to  allow  every  automobilist  who  claims  the 
right  of  fellowship  to  thrust  himself  upon  you"). 


52  The  Lightning  Conductor 

Even  Aunt  Mary  was  impressed  as  we  passed  into 
the  inner  court  of  Chamber d,  and  Miss  Randolph 
(whose  sympathy  and  imagination  throws  her  at 
once  into  harmony  with  her  surroundings)  drew  a 
quick  breath  of  half-awed  astonishment  at  sight  of 
this  enormous  structure,  more  like  a  city  than 
a  single  house,  with  its  prodigious  towers,  its  ex 
traordinary  assemblage  of  pinnacles,  gables,  turrets, 
cones,  chimneys  and  gargoyles.  The  Frenchman 
minced  along  at  her  side,  twirling  his  moustache, 
and  making  great  play  with  those  long-lashed  eyes 
of  his.  I  divined  his  intention  to  outdistance  us, 
and  get  Miss  Randolph  to  himself  in  the  labyrinth 
of  vast,  empty  rooms  through  which  our  party  was 
paraded  by  a  languid  guide;  but  thwarted  him  by 
hastening  Aunt  Mary's  steps  and  keeping  upon  their 
heels  in  my  new  character  of  watch- dog.  I  was 
more  annoyed  than  I  care  to  tell  you  when  I  saw 
that  she  seemed  to  like  his  idiotic  compliments;  but 
when  I  heard  him  tell  her  airily  that  Chambord  was 
built  by  Louis  the  Fourteenth,  and  Miss  Randolph 
turned  questioningly  to  me  with  a  puzzled  little 
wrinkle  on  her  forehead,  I  felt  that  my  time  had 
come. 

I  began  something  reprehensively  like  a  lecture  on 
Chambord,  putting  myself  by  Miss  Randolph's  side, 
and  determined  that  the  Frenchman  should  get  no 
further  chance.  I  pointed  out  the  constant  recurrence 
of  the  salamander,  the  emblem  of  Francis  the  First, 
the  builder  of  the  house,  and  I  told  how  he  had 
selected  this  sandy  waste  to  build  it  on,  because  the 
Comtesse  de  Thoury  had  once  lived  near  by,  she 


The  Lightning  Conductor  53 

having  been  one  of  the  earliest  loves  of  that  oft- 
loving  King.  I  enlarged  upon  the  characteristics 
of  French  Renaissance  architecture,  pointed  out  the 
unity  in  variety  of  the  design  of  Pierre  Nepveu, 
the  obscure  but  splendid  genius  who  planned  the 
house  as  something  between  a  fortified  castle  and 
an  Italian  palace;  showed  them  the  H  entwined 
with  a  crescent  on  those  parts  of  the  house  that 
were  built  by  Henry  the  Second;  and  sketched  the 
history  of  the  place,  talking  about  Marshal  Saxe, 
Stanislas  of  Poland,  the  Revolution  of  1792,  and 
the  subsequent  tenancy  of  Berthier.  I  can  tell  you 
that  when  once  I  was  started,  the  absinthe-driver 
was  bowled  over.  I  simply  sprawled  all  over 
Chambord,  talked  for  once  as  well  as  I  knew  how, 
directed  all  my  remarks  to  Miss  Randolph,  who — 
"though  I  say  it  as  shouldn't" — seemed  dazzled  by 
my  fireworks.  An  English  girl  must  have  been 
struck  with  the  incongruity  of  a  hired  mechanic 
spouting  French  history  like  a  public  lecturer,  but 
she,  I  think,  only  put  it  down  to  some  difference 
in  the  standard  of  English  education.  Anyhow,  the 
Frenchman  was  done  for,  and  Miss  Randolph  and 
I  plunged  into  an  interesting  talk,  shunting  the  new 
acquaintance  upon  Aunt  Mary.  As  she  can  speak 
no  French  and  he  no  English,  they  must  have  had 
a  "  Jack-Sprat-and-his-wife  "  experience. 

For  that  happy  hour  while  we  wandered  through 
the  echoing-rooms  of  Chambord,  climbed  the  wonder 
ful  double  staircase,  and  walked  about  the  intricate 
roof,  I  was  no  longer  James  Brown,  the  hired  me 
chanic,  but  John  Winston,  private  gentleman  and 


54  The  Lightning  Conductor 

man  at  large,  with  a  taste  for  travel.  There  came 
a  horrid  wrench  when  I  had  to  remember  that  I  had 
chosen  to  make  myself  one  of  the  tmclassed,  one 
of  the  "others."  The  autumnal  twilight  was  falling; 
we  had  to  get  to  Blois  on  a  car  that  might  commit 
any  atrocity  at  any  instant.  Yet,  strange  to  say, 
it  had  a  magnanimous  impulse,  started  easily,  and 
ran  smoothly.  The  somewhat  subdued  Frenchman 
started  just  before  us  on  his  little  Pieper,  and  soon 
outpaced  our  solid  chariot.  We  went  back  to  St. 
Di£,  took  the  road  by  the  Loire,  and  as  dusk  was 
falling  crossed  the  camel-backed  bridge  over  the 
great  river,  and  went  up  the  Rue  Denis  Pepin  into 
the  ancient  city  of  Blois.  The  Chateau  does  not 
show  its  best  face  to  the  riverside,  being  hemmed  in 
by  other  buildings,  so  I  drove  past  our  hotel  and  on 
to  the  pretty  green  place  where  the  great  many- 
windowed  Chateau  springs  aloft  from  its  huge  foun 
dation.  "  The  famous  Chateau  of  Blois,"  I  remarked, 
waving  a  hand  towards  it.  "The  old  home  of  the 
kings  of  France."  We  all  sat  and  looked  up  at  the 
huge,  silent  building,  the  glowing  colours  of  its 
recessed  windows  catching  the  last  beams  of  depart 
ing  day. 

"  I  suppose  its  only  tenants  now  are  ghosts,"  said 
Miss  Randolph.  "I  can  imagine  that  I  see  wicked 
Catherine  de  Medicis  glaring  at  us  from  that  high 
window  near  the  tower."  It  was  an  impressive  intro 
duction  to  one  of  the  greatest  monuments  of  France, 
and  after  we  had  gazed  a  little  longer  I  turned  the 
car  and  drove  back  into  the  courtyard  of  the  Grand 
Hotel  de  Blois,  where  tame  partridges  pecked  at 


The  Lightning  Conductor  55 

grain  upon  the  ground,  many  dogs  gambolled,  and 
foreign  birds  bickered  and  chattered  in  huge  cages. 
At  the  entrance  was  the  Frenchman,  all  eyes  and 
eyelashes,  darting  forward  to  help  Miss  Randolph 
from  her  car. 

I  grew  weary  to  nausea  of  this  shallow,  pretentious 
ass,  with  no  knowledge  of  his  own  land.  It  began  to 
shape  itself  in  my  mind  that  though  a  gentleman  in 
exterior  he  was  the  common  or  garden  fortune- 
hunter,  or  perhaps  worse.  Finding  a  beautiful 
American  girl  travelling  en  automobile,  chaperoned 
only  by  a  rather  foolish  and  pliable  aunt,  he  fancied 
her  an  easy  prey  to  his  elaborate  manners  and  eye 
lashes.  Knowing  we  were  coming  to  the  "  Grand,"  I 
had  directed  Almond  to  drive  the  Napier  to  the 
"  France,"  and  my  duty  for  the  day  being  over,  I  was 
about  to  go  across  to  change  and  dine,  when  I  saw 
Miss  Randolph  in  the  hall.  She  was  annoyed,  she 
told  me,  to  find  that  the  best  suite  of  rooms  were 
taken  by  some  rich  Englishman  and  his  daughter, 
and  she  had  to  put  up  with  second-rate  ones.  "Poor 
Monsieur  Talleyrand,"  she  ended,  "has  little  more 
than  a  cupboard  to  sleep  in."  Talleyrand,  then,  was 
the  name  of  the  Frenchman.  "Oh,  is  he  stopping 
here  ?"  I  asked.  "He  said  he  was  going  on  at  once 
to  Biarritz." 

"He's  changed  his  mind,"  said  she.  "He's  so 
impresse4  with  Chambord  that  he  says  it's  a  pity 
not  to  see  all  the  other  chateaux,  which  are  so  impor 
tant  in  the  history  of  his  own  country.  He  asked 
Aunt  Mary  if  we  should  mind  his  going  at  the  same 
time  with  us.  So  of  course  she  said  we  wouldn't." 


56  The  Lightning  Conductor 

All  this,  if  you  please,  with  the  most  candid  air  of 
guilelessness,  which  I  actually  believe  was  genuine. 

"She  said  what?"  I  demanded,  quite  forgetting 
my  part  in  my  rage. 

"She  said,"  repeated  Miss  Randolph  slowly  and 
with  dignity,  "that  we  would  not  mind  his  seeing  the 
chateaux  when  we  see  them.  Why  should  we  mind? 
The  poor  young  man  won't  do  us  any  harm,  and  it's 
quite  right  of  him  to  want  to  see  his  own  castles, 
because,  anyhow,  they're  a  great  deal  more  his  than 
ours." 

I  was  still  out  of  myself,  or  rather  out  of  Brown. 

"  But  is  it  possible,  my  dear  Miss  Randolph,"  I  was 
mad  enough  to  exclaim  (I,  who  had  never  before 
risen  above  the  level  of  a  humble  "miss"),  "that  you 
and  Miss  Kedison  believe  in  that  flimsy  excuse? 
The  castles " 

"Yes,  the  castles,"  she  repeated,  very  properly 
taking  the  word  out  of  my  mouth;  and  the  worst  of 
it  was  that  she  was  completely  right  in  setting  me  in 
my  place,  setting  me  down  hard.  "  I  am  surprised  at 
you,  Brown.  You  are  a  splendid  mechanic,  and — 
and  you  have  travelled  and  read  such  a  lot  that  you 
are  a  very  good  guide  too,  and  because  I  think  we're 
lucky  to  have  got  you  I  treat  you  quite  differently 
from  an  ordinary  chauffeur."  (If  you  could  have 
heard  that  "ordinary"  as  she  said  it!  There  was 
hope  in  it  in  the  midst  of  humiliation;  but  I  dared 
not  let  a  gleam  dart  from  my  respectful  eye.)  "  Still, 
you  must  remember,  please,  that  you  are  engaged  for 
certain  things  and  not  for  others.  If  I  need  a  pro 
tector  besides  Aunt  Mary,  I  may  tell  you." 


The  Lightning  Conductor  57 

I  could  have  burst  into  unholy  laughter  to  hear  the 
poor  child;  but  I  bottled  it  up,  and  only  ventured  to 
say,  with  a  kind  of  soapy  meekness  which  I  hoped 
might  lather  over  the  real  presumption,"  I  beg  your 
pardon,  miss,  and  I  hope  you  won't  be  offended;  but, 
as  you  say,  I  have  travelled  a  little,  and  I  know 
something  of  Frenchmen.  They  don't  always  under 
stand  American  young  ladies  as  well  as " 

"  *  As  well  as  Englishmen,'  I  suppose  you  were  going 
to  say/'  snapped  she,  that  dimpled  chin  of  hers 
suddenly  seeming  to  assume  a  national  squareness 
I'd  never  observed.  "But  Monsieur  Talleyrand, 
though  a  Frenchman,  is  a  gentleman." 

That's  what  I  had  to  swallow,  my  boy.  The 
inference  was  that  a  French  gentleman  was,  at  worst, 
a  cut  above  an  English  mechanic,  and  with  that  she 
turned  her  back  on  me  and  ran  upstairs  with  such  a 
rustling  of  unseen  silk  things  as  made  me  feel  her 
very  petticoats  were  bristling  with  indignation. 

I  could  have  shaken  the  girl.  And  the  things 
I  said  to  myself  as  I  stalked  over  to  my  own  hotel 
won't  bear  repeating;  they  might  set  the  mail-bag 
on  fire;  combustibles  aren't  allowed  in  the  post, 
I  believe.  I  swore  that  (among  other  things)  one 
such  snubbing  was  enough.  If  Miss  Randolph 
wanted  to  get  herself  in  the  devil  of  a  scrape,  she 
could  do  it,  but  I  wasn't  going  to  stand  by  and  look 
complacently  on  while  that  smirking  Beast  made 
fools  of  her  and  her  aunt.  I'd  clear  out  to-morrow; 
didn't  care  a  hang  whether  she  found  out  the  trick 
I'd  played  or  not. 

That  mood  lasted  about  ten  minutes,  then  I  began 


58  The  Lightning  Conductor 

to  realise  that,  talking  of  beasts,  there  was  some 
thing  of  the  sort  inside  my  own  leather  coat,  and 
that  if  anyone  deserved  a  shaking,  it  was  Jack 
Winston,  and  not  that  poor,  pretty  little  thing. 
I  was  bound  to  stop  on  in  the  place  and  protect  her, 
whether  she  knew  she  wanted  any  protection  except 
Aunt  Mary's  (oh,  Lord!)  or  not.  Besides,  I  wanted 
the  place,  since  it  was  the  best  I  could  expect  for 
the  present,  and  where  Talleyrand  (?)  was,  there 
would  I  be  also,  so  long  as  he  was  near  Her. 

Bath  and  dinner  brought  me  once  more  as  near  to 
an  angelic  disposition  as  I  hope  to  attain  in  this 
sphere;  and,  while  I  was  supposed  to  be  earning  my 
screw  by  cleaning  the  loathsome  car,  and  making 
new  fastenings  for  spare  belts,  I  was  complacently 
watching  poor  Almond  in  the  throes  of  these 
Herculean  labours.  N.B. — It's  only  fair  to  myself 
to  tell  you  that  Almond  is  getting  double  wages, 
and  is  quite  satisfied,  though  I'm  persuaded  he  thinks 
he  has  a  madman  for  a  master. 

About  half-past  nine  next  morning  (that's  yester 
day,  in  case  you're  getting  mixed)  I  was  hanging 
round  the  German  chariot  with  a  duster,  pretending 
to  flick  specks  off  it,  though  Almond  had  left  none, 
when  Miss  Randolph,  Aunt  Mary,  and  the  alleged 
Talleyrand  came  out  of  the  coffee-room,  laughing 
and  talking  like  the  best  of  friends.  Talleyrand  was 
now  in  ordinary  clothes,  perhaps  to  point  the 
difference  between  himself  and  a  mere  professional 
chauffeur.  Miss  Randolph  looked  adorable.  She'd 
put  off  her  motoring  get-up,  and  was  no  end  of  a 
swell.  This  I  saw  without  seeming  to  see,  for  we 


The  Lightning  Conductor  59 

Lad  not  met  since  our  scene.  I  didn't  know  where 
I  stood  with  her,  but  thought  it  prudent  meanwhile 
to  wear  a  humble  air  of  conscious  rectitude,  mis 
understood. 

Talleyrand  was  swaggering  along  without  a  glance 
at  the  chauffeur  (why  not,  indeed  ?)  when  Miss 
Randolph  hung  back,  looked  round,  and  then 
stopped.  "Oh,  Brown,  do  you  know  as  much  about 
the  Chateau  of  Blois  as  you  did  about  Chambord?" 
asked  she,  in  a  voice  as  sweet  as  the  Lost  Chord. 

"Yes,  miss,  I  think  I  do,"  said  I,  lifting  my  black 
leather  cap. 

"Then,  are  you  too  busy  to  come  with  us  ?  " 
"  No,  miss,  not  at  all,  if  I  can  be  of  any  service." 
"But,  you  know,  you  needn't  come  unless    you 
like.     Maybe  it  bores  you  to  be  a  guide." 

Now,  if  I'd  been  a  gentleman  and  not  a  chauffeur^ 
perhaps  I  should  have  had  a  right  to  suspect  just 
a  morsel  of  innocent,  kittenish  coquetry  in  this.  As 
it  is  with  me — and  with  her — if  there's  anything  of 
the  sort,  it's  wholly  unconscious.  But  it's  the  most 
adorable  type  of  girl  who  flirts  a  little  with  every 
thing  human — man,  woman,  or  child — and  doesn't 
know  it.  I  take  no  flattering  unction  to  myself  as 
Brown.  Nevertheless  I  dutifully  responded  that  it 
gave  me  pleasure  to  make  use  of  such  small  know 
ledge  as  I  possessed,  and  was  grateful  to  her  for 
not  hearing  Talleyrand  murmur  that  he'd  provided 
himself  with  the  Guide  Joanne.  After  that  I  could 
afford  to  be  moderately  complacent,  even  though 
I  had  to  walk  in  the  rear  of  the  party,  and  no  one 
took  notice  of  me  until  I  was  wanted. 


60  The  Lightning  Conductor 

That  time  came,  when  we'd  wound  round  the  path 
under  the  commanding  old  Chateau,  with  its  long 
lines  of  windows,  and  reached  the  exquisite  Gothic 
doorway.  From  that  moment  it  was  the  Chambord 
business  over  again;  and  I  thanked  my  foresight 
for  having  stopped  out  of  my  bed  half  the  night, 
fagging  up  all  the  historical  details  I'd  forgotten. 
These  I  brought  out  with  a  naturalistic  air  of  having 
been  brought  up  on  them  since  earliest  infancy. 

Miss  Randolph  chatters  pretty  American  French, 
but  doesn't  understand  as  much  as  she  speaks  when 
it's  reeled  off  by  the  yard,  so  to  say;  therefore  my 
explanations  in  English  were  more  profitable  than 
the  French  of  the  official  guide,  who  fell  into  the 
background.  My  delightful  American  maiden  has 
never  travelled  abroad  before,  and  she  brings  with 
her  a  fresh  eagerness  for  all  the  old  things  that  are 
so  new  to  her.  It  is  a  constant  joy  even  for  poor 
handicapped  Brown  to  go  about  with  her,  finding 
how  invariably  she  seizes  on  the  right  thing,  which 
she  knows  by  instinct  rather  than  cultivation — though 
she's  evidently  what  she  would  call  a  "  college  girl." 

I  halted  my  little  party  before  the  Louis  the 
Twelfth  gateway,  made  them  admire  the  equestrian 
statue  of  the  good  King,  drew  their  attention  to  the 
beautiful  chimneys  and  the  adornments  of  the  roof, 
with  the  agreeable  porcupine  of  Louis,  the  mild 
ermine  and  the  constantly  recurring  festooned  rope 
of  that  important  lady,  Anne  of  Brittany.  Then  I 
led  them  inside,  rejoicing  in  Talleyrand's  air  of 
resentful  remoteness  from  my  guidance.  I  scored, 
too,  in  his  superficial  knowledge  of  English.  In  the 


The  Lightning  Conductor  61 

midst  of  my  ciceronage,  however,  I  thought  of  you, 
and  how  we  had  discussed  plans  of  this  trip  to 
gether.  You  had  looked  forward  particularly  to 
the  Chateau;  and  as  you've  urged  me  to  paint  for 
you  what  you  can't  see  (this  time),  your  blood  be 
on  your  own  head  if  I  bore  you. 

You  would  be  happy  in  the  courtyard  of  the 
Chateau,  for  it  would  be  to  your  mind,  as  to  mine, 
one  of  the  most  delightful  things  in  Europe.  It's 
a  sort  of  object  lesson  in  French  architecture  and 
history,  showing  at  least  three  periods;  and  when 
Miss  Randolph  looked  up  at  that  perfect,  open  stair 
case,  bewildering  in  its  carved,  fantastic  beauty,  I 
wasn't  surprised  to  have  her  ask  if  she  were  dream 
ing  it,  or  if  we  saw  it  too.  "It's  lace,  stone  lace," 
she  said.  And  so  it  is.  She  coined  new  adjectives 
for  the  windows,  the  sculptured  cornices,  the  ex 
quisite  and  ingenious  perfection  of  the  incomparable 
fac.ade. 

"  I  could  be  so  good  if  I  always  had  this  staircase 
to  look  at!  "  she  exclaimed.  " It  didn't  seem  to  have 
any  effect  on  Catherine  de  Medici's  soul;  but  then  I 
suppose  when  she  lived  here  she  stopped  indoors 
most  of  the  time,  making  up  poisons.  I'm  sorry 
I  said  yesterday  that  Francis  the  First  had  a  ridic 
ulous  nose.  A  man  who  could  build  this  had  a 
right  to  have  anything  he  liked,  or  do  anything  he 
liked." 

And  you  should  have  seen  her  stare  when  Talley 
rand  bestowed  an  enthusiastic  "Comme  c'estbeau!" 
on  the  left  wing  of  the  courtyard,  for  which  Gaston 
d' Orleans'  bad  taste  and  foolish  extravagance  is 


62  The  Lightning  Conductor 

responsible — a  thing  not  to  be  named  with  the  joyous 
Renaissance  facade  of  Francis. 

When  Miss  Randolph  could  be  torn  away,  we 
went  inside,  and  throwing  off  self-consciousness  in 
the  good  cause,  I  flung  myself  into  the  drama  of 
the  Guise  murder.  Little  did  I  know  what  I  was 
letting  myself  in  for.  My  one  desire  was  to  interest 
Miss  Randolph,  and  (incidentally,  perhaps)  show  her 
what  a  clever  chap  she  had  got  for  a  chaff eur — 
though  he  wasn't  a  gentleman,  and  Talleyrand  was. 

I  pointed  from  a  window  to  the  spot  where  stands 
the  house  from  which  the  Due  de  Guise  was  decoyed 
from  the  arms  of  his  mistress;  showed  where  he 
stood  impatiently  leaning  against  the  tall  mantel 
piece,  waiting  his  audience  with  Henri  the  Third; 
pointed  to  the  threshold  of  the  Vieux  Cabinet  where 
he  was  stabbed  in  the  back  as  he  lifted  the  arras; 
told  how  he  ran,  crying  "a  moi!"  and  where  he 
fell  at  last  to  die,  bleeding  from  more  than  forty 
wounds,  given  by  the  Forty  Gentlemen  of  the  Plot; 
showed  the  little  oratory  in  which,  while  the  murder 
ous  work  went  on,  two  monks  gabbled  prayers  for 
its  successful  issue. 

I  got  quite  interested  in  my  own  harangue,  in 
spired  by  those  stars  Miss  Randolph  has  for  eyes, 
and  didn't  notice  that  my  audience  had  increased, 
until,  at  this  point,  I  suddenly  heard  a  shocked  echo 
of  Aunt  Mary's  "Oh!"  of  horror,  murmured  in  a 
strange  voice,  close  to  my  shoulder.  Then  I  looked 
round  and  saw  a  man  and  a  girl,  who  were  evidently 
hanging  on  my  words. 

The  man  was  the  type  one  sees  on  advertisements 


The  Lightning  Conductor  63 

of  succulent  sauces;  you  know,  the  smiling,  full- 
bodied,  red-faced,  good-natured  John  Bull  sort,  who 
is  depicted  smacking  his  lips  over  a  meal  accom 
panied  by  The  Sauce,  which  has  produced  the 
ecstasy.  One  glance  at  his  shaven  upper  lip,  his 
chin  beard,  and  his  keen  but  kindly  eye,  and  I  set 
him  down  as  a  comfortable  manufacturer  on  a  holi 
day — a  Lancashire  or  Yorkshire  man.  The  girl 
might  be  a  daughter  or  young  wife;  I  thought  the 
former.  A  handsome  creature,  with  big  black  eyes 
and  a  luscious,  peach-like  colour;  style  of  hair  dressing 
conscientiously  copied  from  Queen  Alexandra's;  fine 
figure,  well  shown  off  by  a  too  elaborate  dress  pro 
bably  bought  at  the  wrong  shop  in  Paris;  you  felt 
she  had  been  sent  by  doting  parents  to  a  boarding- 
school  for  "the  daughters  of  noblemen  and  gentle 
men";  no  expense  spared. 

It  was  she  who  had  echoed  Aunt  Mary;  and  when 
I  turned  she  bridled.  Yes,  I  think  that's  the  only 
word  for  what  she  did.  But  it  was  the  man  who 
spoke. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  dividing  the  apology 
among  the  whole  party,  and  taking  off  his  unspeak 
ably  solid  hat  to  the  ladies.  "I  hope  there's  no 
objection  to  me  and  my  daughter  listening  to  this 
very  intelligent  guide?  She's  learned  French,  but 
it  doesn't  seem  to  work  here;  she  thinks  it's  too 
Parisian  for  Blois,  but  anyhow,  we  couldn't  either  of 
us  understand  a  word  the  French  guide  said,  so  we 
took  the  liberty  of  joining  on  to  you,  with  a  great 
deal  of  pleasure  and  profit." 

He  had  a  sort  of  engaging  ingenuousness,  mixed 


64  The  Lightning  Conductor 

with  shrewdness  of  the  provincial  order,  and  I  could 
see  that  he  appealed  to  my  American  girl,  though 
I  don't  think  she  cottoned  to  the  daughter.  She 
smiled  at  the  papa,  as  if  for  the  sake  of  her  own; 
and  in  a  few  pretty  words  practically  made  him  a 
present  of  me,  that  is,  she  offered  to  let  him  share  me 
for  the  rest  of  the  tour  round  the  Chateau.  I  was  not 
sorry,  as  I  hoped  that  the  daughter  might  occupy  the 
attention  of  Monsieur  Talleyrand;  and  as,  under 
these  new  conditions,  we  continued  our  explorations, 
I  adroitly  contrived  to  divide  off  the  party  as  follows : 
Miss  Randolph,  the  Lancashire  man  (his  accent  had 
placed  him  in  my  mind),  and  myself;  Aunt  Mary, 
the  new  girl,  and  our  gentleman  of  the  eyelashes. 
This  arrangement  was  satisfactory  to  me  and  the 
old  man,  whether  it  was  to  anybody  else  or  not; and 
so  grouped,  we  went  through  the  apartments  of 
Catherine  de  Medicis  (Aunt  Mary  pronounced  "those 
little  poison  cupboards  of  hers  vurry  cunning;  so  cute 
of  her  to  keep  changing  them  around  all  the  time!"), 
and  out  on  the  splendid  balconies. 

The  Lancashire  man,  thanks  to  Miss  Randolph's 
permission,  made  himself  quite  at  home  with  me, 
bombarding  me  with  historical  questions.  But  it 
was  evident  that  he  was  puzzled  as  to  my  status. 

"You  are  a  first-rate  lecturer,"  said  he.  "I  sup 
pose  that's  your  profession?" 

"  Not  entirely,"  said  I,  with  a  glance  at  Miss  Ran 
dolph;  but  she  was  enjoying  the  joke,  and  not  minded 
to  enlighten  him.  Probably  he  supposed  that  leather 
jacket  and  leggings  was  the  regulation  costume  of  a 
lecturing  guide. 


The  Lightning  Conductor  65 

"Do  you  engage  by  the  day,"  he  inquired,  "or  by 
the  tour?" 

"  So  far,  I  have  engaged  by  the  tour,  sir,"  I  returned, 
playing  up  for  the  amusement  of  my  lady. 

He  scratched  his  chin  reflectively.  "Baedeker 
recommends  several  of  these  old  castles  in  this  part 
of  the  country,"  said  he.  "Do  you  know  'em  all?  " 

I  answered  that  I  had  visited  them. 

"All  as  interesting  as  this?  " 

"Quite,  in  different  ways." 

"Hm!     Do  you  speak  French?" 

"Fairly,"  I  modestly  responded. 

"Well,  if  this  young  lady  hasn't  engaged  you  for 
too  long  ahead,  I  should  like  to  talk  to  you  about 
going  on  with  us.  I  didn't  think  I  should  care  to 
have  a  courier,  but  a  chap  like  you  would  add  a  good 
deal  to  the  pleasure  of  a  trip.  Seems  to  me  you  are 
a  sort  of  walking  encyclopaedia.  I  would  pay  you 
whatever  you  asked,  in  reason " 

"And,  oh,  papa,  he  might  go  on  with  us  all  the  way 
to  Cannes!"  chipped  in  the  daughter,  which  was  my 
first  intimation  that  she  was  listening.  But  she  had 
joined  the  forward  group,  and  the  words  addressed  to 
Pa  were  apparently  spoken  at  me.  I  dared  not  look 
at  Miss  Randolph,  but  I  hoped  that  a  background  of 
other  people's  approval  might  set  me  off  well  in 
her  eyes. 

I  was  collecting  my  wits  for  an  adequate  answer, 
when  she  relieved  me  of  the  responsibility.  I  might 
even  say  she  snapped  up  the  young  lady  from 
Lancashire. 

"  I'm  afraid  I  must  disappoint  you,"  she  replied  for 


66  The  Lightning  Conductor 

her  chauffeur.  "He  is  engaged  to  me.  I  mean" 
(and  she  blushed  divinely)  "he  is  under  engagement 
to  remain  with  my  aunt  and  myself  for  some  time 
We  are  making  a  tour  on  an  automobile." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  I'm  sure,"  said  the  old  fellow, 
as  the  American  and  the  English  girl  eyed  each 
other — or  each  other's  dresses.  "  I  didn't  understand 
the  arrangement.  When  you  are  free,  though,"  he 
went  on,  turning  to  me,  "you  might  just  let  me  know. 
We're  thinking  of  travelling  about  for  some  time, 
and  I've  taken  a  liking  to  your  ways.  I'm  at  the 
'Grand'  here  at  Blois  for  the  day,  then  we  go  on  to 
Tours,  and  so  by  easy  stages  to  the  Riviera.  At 
Cannes,  we  shall  settle  down  for  a  bit,  as  my  daughter 
has  a  friend  who's  expecting  us  to  meet  her  there. 
But  I'll  give  you  my  card,  with  my  home  address 
on  it,  and  a  letter,  or,  better  still,  a  wire,  would 
be  forwarded."  He  then  thanked  Miss  Randolph 
for  me,  thanked  me  for  myself,  and,  with  a  last 
flourish  of  trumpets,  handed  me  his  card. 

By  this  time  we  had  "done"  the  castle,  as  con 
scientious  Aunt  Mary  would  say,  and  were  parting. 
All  exchanged  bows  (Miss  Randolph's  and  the 
Lancashire  girl's  expressive  of  armed  neutrality) 
and  parted.  I  thereupon  glanced  at  the  card  and 
got  a  sensation. 

"Mr.  Jabez  Barrow,  Edenholme  Hall,  Liverpool," 
was  what  I  read.  That  conveys  little  to  you,  though 
as  an  address  it  has  suggestive  charm,  but  to  me 
it  meant  nothing  less  than  a  complication.  Queer, 
what  a  little  place  the  world  is!  To  make  clear  the 
situation  I  need  only  say,  "The  Cotton  King."  Yes, 


The  Lightning  Conductor  67 

that's  it;  you've  guessed  it.  These  Barrows  are  my 
mother's  newest  proteges.  Jabez  Barrow  is  the 
"quaint,  original  old  man"  she  is  so  anxious  for 
me  to  meet,  and,  indeed,  has  made  arrangements  that 
I  should  meet.  Miss  Barrow  is  the  "beautiful  girl 
with  wonderful  eyes  and  such  charming  ways,"  who, 
in  my  dear  mother's  opinion,  would  be  so  desirable 
as  a  daughter-in-law.  Had  not  your  doctors  knocked 
our  plans  on  the  head  you  would  have  had  the 
pleasure  of  being  introduced  in  my  company  to 
the  heiress,  when  I  should  have  made  you  a  present 
of  my  chance  to  add  to  your  own.  As  it  is — well, 
I  don't  quite  see  that  any  bother  can  come  out 
of  this  coincidence,  but  I  must  keep  a  sharp  look 
out  for  myself.  I  saw  no  Kodak  in  the  hands  of 
the  gilded  ones,  or — by-and-by — my  mother  might 
receive  a  shock.  But  perhaps  they  may  have  pos 
sessed  and  concealed  it. 

Into  the  midst  of  my  breedings  over  the  card 
broke  the  voice  of  Miss  Randolph,  in  whose  wake 
I  was  now  following  down  the  picturesque  old  street 
to  the  hotel.  Talleyrand  was  in  attendance  again, 
and  she  had  merely  to  say  that  the  car  was  to  be  ready 
for  start  to  Amboise  after  luncheon.  Accordingly  I 
stepped  over  to  my  own  private  lair,  told  Almond  to 
get  off  at  once  with  my  Napier  to  Amboise,  putting 
up  at  a  hotel  I  named  and  awaiting  instructions. 

Havt  you  begun  to  think  there's  to  be  no  end  to 
this  letter?  Well,  I  shall  try  to  whet  your  curiosity 
for  what's  still  to  come  by  saying  that  I  have  availed 
myself  of  a  strange  blank  interval  in  the  middle  of 
the  night  for  the  writing  of  it,  and  that  dawn  can't 


68  The  Lightning  Conductor 

now  be  far  off.  When  it  breaks  this  adventure 
of  mine  will  have  reached  a  crisis — a  distinctly 
new  development.  But  enough  of  hints. 

This  country  of  the  Loire  is  exquisite;  it  has  both 
grandeur  and  simple  beauty,  and  the  road  winding 
above  the  river  is  practically  level  and  in  splendid 
condition;  ideal  for  motors  and  "hay-motors."  The 
distance  between  the  good  town  of  Blois  and  Am- 
boise  is  less  than  twenty  miles.  Any  decent-minded 
motor  would  whistle  along  from  the  great  grey 
Chateau  to  the  brilliant  cream-white  one  under  the 
hour,  but  that  isn't  the  way  of  our  Demon. 

Miss  Randolph  once  said  that  owning  a  motor-car 
was  like  having  a  half-tamed  dragon  in  the  family. 
She  is  quite  right  about  her  motor-car,  poor  child! 
The  Demon  had  been  behaving  somewhat  less 
fiendishly  of  late,  and  I  had  hopes  of  a  successful 
run  to  Amboise,  which  I  particularly  desired,  as 
Eyelashes  was  to  accompany  us  with  his  Pieper. 
But  this  good  conduct  had  been  no  more  than  a 
trick. 

The  luggage  was  loaded  up;  Talleyrand  was 
making  himself  officious  about  helping  the  ladies, 
who  were  in  the  courtyard  ready  to  mount,  when 
the  motor  took  it  into  its  vile  head  not  to  start — 
a  little  attack  of  faintness,  owing  to  the  petrol 
being  cold  perhaps.  Of  course,  there  was  the  usual 
crowd  of  hotel  servants  and  loafers  to  see  us  off, 
and  beyond,  standing  as  interested  spectators  on 
the  steps,  who  but  Jabez  Barrow  and  his  handsome 
daughter. 

I  tell  you  the  perspiration  decorated  my  forehead 


The  Lightning  Conductor  69 

in  beads  when  I'd  made  a  dozen  fruitless  efforts  to 
start  that  family  dragon,  Eyelashes  maddening  me 
the  while  with  a  series  of  idiotic  suggestions.  Even 
Miss  Randolph  began  to  get  a  little  nervous,  and 
called  out  to  me,  "What  can  be  the  matter,  Brown? 
I  thought  you  were  such  a  strong  man  too.  Do  let 
Monsieur  Talleyrand  try,  as  he's  an  expert." 

I  could  see  Eyelashes  didn't  like  that  suggestion 
a  little  bit,  consequently  I  welcomed  it.  It's  very 
well  to  dance  about  and  give  advice,  quite  another 
thing  to  do  the  work  yourself;  but  I  gleefully  stood 
aside  while  he  grasped  the  starting-handle.  It  takes 
both  strength  and  knack  to  start  that  car,  and  he 
had  neither.  At  first  he  couldn't  get  the  handle 
round  against  the  compression;  then,  exerting  him 
self  further,  there  came  a  terrific  back-fire — the 
handle  flew  round,  knocked  him  off  his  feet,  and 
sent  him  staggering,  very  pale,  into  the  arms  of  a 
white-aproned  waiter.  I  couldn't  help  grinning,  and 
I  fancy  Miss  Randolph  hid  a  smile  behind  her  hand 
kerchief. 

Eyelashes  was  furious.  "It  is  a  horror,  that 
German  machine!"  he  cried.  "Such  a  thing  has 
no  right  to  exist.  Look  at  mine  !  "  He  darted  to 
his  Pieper,  gave  one  twist  of  the  handle,  and  the 
motor  instantly  leaped  into  life.  Everyone  mur 
mured  approval  at  this  demonstration  of  the  supe 
riority  of  France,  or  rather,  Belgium,  to  Germany; 
but  next  moment  I  had  got  our  motor  to  start.  The 
ladies  dubiously  took  their  places,  and  under  the 
critical  dark  eyes  of  Miss  Barrow  I  steered  out  into 
the  streets  of  Blois. 


70  The  Lightning  Conductor 

I  will  spare  you  the  detailed  horrors  of  the  next 
few  hours.  It  seemed  to  me  that  to  keep  that  car 
going  one  must  have  the  agility  of  a  monkey,  the 
strength  of  a  Sandow,  and  the  resourcefulness  of 
a  Sherlock  Holmes.  Almost  everything  went  wrong 
that  could  go  wrong.  Both  chains  snapped — that 
was  trifling  except  for  the  waste  of  time,  but  finally 
the  exhaust- valve  spring  broke.  It  was  getting  dusk 
by  this  time,  and  to  replace  that  spring  was  one 
of  the  grisliest  of  my  automobile  experiences.  To 
get  at  it  I  had  to  lift  off  all  the  upper  body  of  the 
car  and  take  out  both  the  inlet  and  the  exhaust 
valves.  As  darkness  came  on,  Miss  Randolph  (who 
took  it  all  splendidly  and  laughed  at  our  misfortunes) 
held  a  lamp  while  I  wrestled  with  the  spring  and 
valves.  The  Frenchman,  who  had  kept  close  to  us 
on  his  irritatingly  perfect  little  Pieper,  I  simply  used 
as  a  labourer,  ordering  him  about  as  I  pleased — my 
one  satisfaction.  After  an  hour's  work  (much  of  the 
time  on  my  back  under  the  car,  with  green  oil 
dripping  into  my  hair!)  I  got  the  new  spring  on, 
and  we  could  start  again.  Then — horror  on  horror's 
head! — we  had  not  gone  two  miles  before  I  heard 
a  strange  clack!  clack!  and  looking  behind,  saw  that 
one  of  the  back  tyres  was  loose,  hanging  to  the  wheel 
in  a  kind  of  festoon,  like  a  fat  worm. 

It  was  eight  o'clock;  we  had  lunched  at  one;  the 
night  was  dark;  we  were  still  miles  short  of  Amboise; 
if  the  tyre  came  right  off,  it  would  be  awkward  to 
run  on  the  rim.  I  explained  this,  suggesting  that 
we  should  leave  the  car  for  a  night  at  a  farmhouse, 
which  presumably  existed  behind  a  high,  glimmering 


The  Lightning  Conductor  71 

white  wall  near  which  we  happened  to  halt,  and  try 
to  get  a  conveyance  of  some  sort  to  drive  on  to 
Amboise. 

But  I  had  calculated  without  Eyelashes.  Instantly 
he  saw  his  chance,  and  seized  it.  Figuratively  he 
laid  his  Pieper  at  the  ladies*  feet.  To  be  sure,  it  was 
built  for  only  two,  but  the  seat  was  very  wide;  there 
was  plenty  or  room;  he  would  be  only  too  glad  to 
whirl  them  off  to  the  most  comfortable  hotel  at 
Amboise,  which  could  be  reached  in  no  time.  As 
for  the  chauffeur,  he  could  be  left  to  look  after  the  car. 

The  chauffeur,  however,  did  not  see  this  in  the 
same  light.  Not  that  he  minded  the  slight  hardship, 
if  any,  but  to  see  his  liege  lady  whisked  off  from 
under  his  eyes  by  the  villain  of  the  piece  was  too 
much. 

Think  how  you  would  have  felt  in  my  place.  But 
the  hideous  part  was  that,  like  "A"  in  a  "Vanity 
Fair"  Hard  Case,  I  could  do  nothing.  The  proposal 
was  vexatiously  sensible,  and  I  had  to  stand  swallow 
ing  my  objections  while  Miss  Randolph  and  her  aunt 
decided. 

I  saw  her  move  a  step  or  two  towards  the  Pieper 
silently,  rather  gloomily,  but  Aunt  Mary  was  grimly 
alert.  Eyelashes  had,  I  had  learned  through  snatches 
of  conversation  on  board  the  car,  been  tactful  enough 
to  present  Aunt  Mary  with  a  little  brooch  and  a 
couple  of  hat-pins  of  the  charming  faience  made  by  a 
famous  man  in  Blois.  Intrinsically  of  no  great  value, 
they  rejoiced  in  ermine  and  porcupine  crests,  with 
exquisitely  coloured  backgrounds,  and  the  guileless 
lady's  heart  had  been  completely  won.  She  now 


72  The  Lightning  Conductor 

emphatically  voted  for  the  Frenchman  and  his  car. 
But  I  have  already  noted  a  little  peculiarity  of  Miss 
Randolph's,  which  I  have  also  observed  in  other  de 
lightful  girls,  though  none  as  delightful  as  she.  If 
she  is  undecided  about  a  thing,  and  somebody  else 
takes  it  for  granted  she  is  going  to  do  it,  she  is  im 
mediately  certain  that  she  never  contemplated  any 
thing  of  the  kind. 

This  welcome  idiosyncrasy  now  proved  my  friend. 
"Why,  Aunt  Mary,"  she  exclaimed,  "you  wouldn't 
have  me  go  off  and  desert  my  own  car,  in  the  middle 
of  the  night  too?  I  couldn't  think  of  such  a  thing. 
You  can  go  with  Monsieur  Talleyrand,  if  you  want 
to,  but  I  shall  stay  here  till  everything  is  settled." 

I  was  really  sorry  for  Aunt  Mary.  She  was  almost 
ready  to  cry. 

"You  know  perfectly  well  I  shouldn't  dream  of 
leaving  you  here,  perhaps  to  be  murdered,"  whim 
pered  she.  "Where  you  stay,  I  stay." 

She  had  the  air  of  an  elderly  female  Casabianca. 

As  for  Miss  Randolph,  I  adored  her  when  she 
bade  me  go  with  her  to  investigate  what  lay  behind 
the  wall,  and  told  Talleyrand  off  for  sentinel  duty 
over  Aunt  Mary  and  the  car  in  the  road. 

At  first  sight  the  wall  seemed  a  blank  one,  but  I 
found  a  large  gate,  pushed  it  open,  and  we  walked 
into  the  darkness  of  a  great  farmyard.  Not  a 
glimmer  showed  the  position  of  the  house,  but  a 
clatter  of  hoofs  and  a  chink  of  light  guided  us  to 
wards  a  stable,  where  a  giant  man  with  aquiline 
face  was  rubbing  down  a  rusty  and  aged  horse.  He 
started  and  fixed  a  suspicious  stare  on  me,  and  I 


The  Lightning  Conductor  73 

daresay  that  I  was  a  forbidding  figure  in  my  dirty 
leather  clothes,  with  smears  of  oil  upon  my  face. 
His  expression  lightened  a  little  at  sight  of  my 
companion,  but  he  was  inflexible  in  his  refusal  to 
drive  us  anywhere.  His  old  mare  had  cast  a  shoe  on 
her  way  home  just  now;  he  would  not  take  her  out 
again.  Could  he,  then,  Miss  Randolph  asked,  give 
us  rooms  for  the  night,  and  food  ?  As  to  that  he  was 
not  sure,  but  would  consult  his  wife.  He  tramped 
before  us  to  the  big  dark  house,  put  down  his  lan 
tern  in  the  hall,  opened  a  door,  and  ushered  us  into 
a  dark  room,  following  and  closing  the  door  behind 
him.  The  room  was  airless  and  heavy  with  the 
odour  of  cooking.  The  darkness  was  intense,  and 
from  the  midst  of  it  came  a  strange  sound  of  jabber- 
Ing  and  bleating  which  for  the  life  of  me  I  couldn't 
understand.  I  felt  Miss  Randolph  draw  near  me  as 
if  for  protection,  then  with  the  scratch  of  a  match 
and  a  flicker  from  a  lamp  which  the  farmer  was 
lighting,  was  revealed  the  cause  of  the  weird  sounds. 
Seated  by  the  stove  was  a  pathetically  old  woman, 
with  pendulous  chin  and  rheumy  eyes.  Swinging 
her  palsied  head  from  side  to  side,  she  jabbered  and 
bleated  incoherently  to  herself,  being  abandoned  to 
this  plague  of  darkness  doubtless  from  motives  of 
economy. 

The  farmer's  wife  appeared,  and  after  much  dis 
cussion  it  was  arranged  that  the  ladies  could  have 
a  double-bedded  room,  and  there  was  a  small  one 
that  would  do  for  Monsieur  Talleyrand;  but  the 
mtcanicien  would  have  to  sleep  in  the  barn,  where  he 
could  have  some  clean  straw.  Supper  could  be  ready 


74  The  Lightning  Conductor 

in  half  an  hour,  but  we  were  not  to  expect  the  lux 
uries  of  a  hotel. 

The  farmer  and  I  carried  the  ladies'  hand-luggage 
upstairs  into  a  mysterious  dim  region,  where  all  was 
clean  and  cold.  I  had  a  flickering,  candle-lit  vision 
of  a  big  white  room,  with  an  enormously  high  bed 
stead,  bare  floor,  a  rug  or  two,  a  chair  or  two,  a  shrine, 
and  a  washhand-stand  with  a  knitted  cover,  one 
basin  the  size  of  a  porridge-bowl  containing  a  thing 
like  a  milk-jug.  Then  I  set  down  my  burden  and 
departed  to  wheel  the  great  helpless  car  into  the 
farmyard,  and  wash  my  hands  with  Hudson's  soap  in 
a  trough  under  a  pump  outside  the  kitchen. 

Meanwhile  preparations  for  supper  went  on,  and 
as  I  was  hungrily  hoping  for  scraps  when  my  betters 
should  have  finished,  who  should  pop  out  but  that 
Angel  to  say  that  supper  was  ready,  and  would  I  eat 
with  them!  I  had  been  working  so  hard  and  must 
be  starved.  If  she  had  guessed  how  I  longed  to  kiss 
her  she  would  have  run  away  indoors  much  faster 
than  she  did. 

There  was  soup,  chicken,  an  omelette,  and  cheese. 
Trust  a  Frenchwoman — even  the  humblest — to  turn 
out  an  excellent  meal  on  the  shortest  notice.  Miss 
Randolph  smiled  and  beamed  on  them,  so  that  in 
five  minutes  the  farmer  and  his  wife  were  her  willing 
slaves.  She  was  delighted  with  the  "adventure,"  as 
she  called  it,  declaring  that  the  whole  thing  would  be 
the  greatest  fun  in  the  world.  She  was  glad  that  the 
horrid  tyre  had  come  off,  as  it  gave  her  the  chance, 
which  she  would  never  have  had  otherwise,  of  study 
ing  French  peasant  life  at  first  hand.  Aunt  Mary 


The  Lightning  Conductor  75 

was  called  in  from  outside  and  acquiesced,  as  she 
always  did,  in  the  arrangements  made  by  her  im 
petuous  niece ;  the  farmer  and  I  had  pushed  the  Ger 
man  car  inside  the  gate  and  left  it;  but  Talley 
rand  was  fussy  about  getting  proper  cover  for  his 
smart  Pieper,  and  was  not  satisfied  until  he  had 
housed  it  in  a  dry  barn  near  the  house. 

After  supper  I  strolled  out  into  the  night,  trying, 
with  a  pipe  between  my  lips,  to  think  out  the  details 
of  an  alluring  new  plan  which  had  flashed  into  my 
mind. 

"Flashed"  there,  do  I  say?  Forced,  rammed  in, 
and  pounded  down  expresses  it  better.  Will  you 
believe  it,  during  supper,  that  fellow — Eyelashes,  I 
mean — had  had  the  audacity  to  urge  upon  Miss 
Randolph  that  she  must  now  continue  the  tour  on 
his  car! 

I  was  smoking  and  fuming  in  the  dark,  in  a  corner 
down  by  the  gateway,  when  I  heard  a  whisper  of  silk 
(I  suppose  it's  linings;  I'd  know  it  at  the  North  Pole 
as  hers,  now),  and  detected  a  shadow  which  I  knew 
meant  Miss  Randolph.  She  came  nearer.  I  saw 
her  distinctly  now,  for  she  was  carrying  a  lantern. 
At  first  I  thought  she  was  looking  for  me,  but  she 
wasn't.  She  went  straight  to  the  car  and  stood 
glowering  at  it  for  a  minute,  having  set  down  the 
lantern.  Then  she  took  Something  out  of  the  folds 
of  her  dress  and  seemed  to  feel  it  with  her  hand. 
"Oh,  you  won't  go,  won't  you?"  she  inquired  sar 
donically.  "You  like  to  break  your  belts  and  go 
dropping  your  chains  about,  just  to  give  Brown  all 
the  trouble  you  can,  don't  you,  and  keep  us  from 


76  The  Lightning  Conductor 

getting  anywhere?  You  think  it's  enough  to  be 
beautiful,  and  you  can  be  as  much  of  a  beast  as  you 
like.  But  you're  not  beautiful.  You're  horrid,  and 
I  hate  you!  Take  that!" 

Up  went  the  Something  in  her  hand  ;  it  glittered 
in  the  yellow  light  of  the  lantern.  If  you  will  believe 
it,  the  girl  had  got  a  hatchet  and  was  chopping  at  the 
car.  Her  poor  vicious  little  stroke  did  no  great 
damage,  but  she  chipped  off  a  big  flake  of  varnish 
and  left  a  white  gash. 

"Oh!"  she  exclaimed,  as  if  it  had  hurt  her  and 
not  her  great  lumbering  dragon.  "Oh,  you  deserve 

it,  you  know,  and  a  lot  more.     But — but "  and 

she  gave  a  little  gurgling  sigh. 

I  had  been  on  the  point  of  bursting  out  with 
uncontrollable  laughter,  but  suddenly  I  ceased  to 
find  the  thing  funny.  I  couldn't  lurk  in  ambush  and 
hear  any  more;  I  couldn't  sneak  away — even  to 
spare  her  feelings — and  leave  her  there  to  cry,  for 
I  felt  she  was  going  to  cry.  So  I  came  out  into  the 
circle  of  lantern-light,  shaking  the  tobacco  from  my 
pipe. 

"Why,  Brown,  is  that  you?  "  she  quavered.  "I — 
I  didn't  want  anyone  to  see  me,  and  I  wasn't  crying 
about  the  car,  but  just  Because — because  of  every 
thing.  I  found  that  hatchet,  and — I  couldn't  help  it.  • 
I'm  sorry  now,  though.  It  was  mean  of  me  to  hit 
a  thing  when  it's  down,  even  if  it  is  a  Beast.  It 
does  deserve  to  be  killed,  though.  It's  simply  no 
use  trying  to  go  on  with  such  a  thing — is  it?  " 

Because  of  the  Plan  in  my  mind  I  replied  gloomily 
that  the  prospect  was  rather  discouraging. 


The  Lightning  Conductor  77 

"Discouraging  !  It's  impossible  !  "  she  cried.  "  I've 
been  hoping  against  hope,  but  I  see  that  now.  I 
won't  ask  poppa  to  buy  me  another;  it's  too  ridicu 
lous.  So  there's  nothing  left  except  to  go  on  by  train 
everywhere,  unless — yoti  heard  how  kind  Monsieur 
Talleyrand  was  about  offering  to  take  us  on  his  car." 

In  the  lantern  light  I  thought  I  saw  that  she  was 
beginning  to  look  enigmatic,  but  I  couldn't  trust  my 
eyes  at  this  moment.  There  were  a  good  many 
stars  floating  before  them — not  heavenly — the  kind 
I  should  have  liked  to  make  Talleyrand  see. 

"Yes,  miss,  I  heard,"  I  said  brutally,  "and,  of 
course,  if  you  and  your  aunt  would  like  that,  I  could 
wire  to  Mr.  Barrow,  the  gentleman  who  went  round 
the  Chateau  with  us  to-day,  that  I  was  free  to  take 
an  engagement  with  him  and  his  daughter." 

She  turned  on  me  like  a  flash.  "Oh,  is  that  what 
you  are  thinking  of?  Well — certainly  you  may 
consider  yourself  free — perfectly  free.  You  are  under 
no  contract.  Go!  go  to-morrow — or  even  to-night 
if  you  wish.  Leave  me  here  with  my  car.  I  can 
go  back  to  Paris,  or — or  somewhere." 

"  But  I  thought  you  were  going  on  with  the  French 
gentleman?"  I  said. 

"I  should  not  think  of  going  with  him,"  she 
announced  icily. 

"  You  said " 

"L'said  he  invited  me.  I  never  said  I  meant  to 
go;  I  couldn't  have  said  it.  For  I  should  hate  going 
with  him.  There  would  be  no  fun  in  that  at  all. 
I  want  my  own  car  or  none.  But  that  need  not 
matter  to  you.  Go  with  your  Barrows." 


78  The  Lightning  Conductor 

"Begging  your  pardon,  miss,  I  don't  want  to  go 
with  any  Barrows." 

"But  you  said " 

"  If  you  wished  to  get  rid  of  me " 

"7  wish  'to  get  rid  of  you!  I  don't  repudiate 
my — business  arrangements  in  that  way." 

"May  I  stop  on  with  you,  then,  miss?  "  I  pleaded  at 
my  meekest.  "I'll  try  and  do  the  best  I  can  about 
the  car." 

"Oh,  do  you  really  think  there's  any  hope?  "  She 
clasped  her  hands  and  looked  at  me  as  if  I  were 
an  oracle.  Her  eyelashes  are  very  long.  I  wonder 
why  they  are  so  charming  on  her  and  so  abominable 
on  a  Frenchman? 

"  I've  got  an  idea  in  my  mind,  miss,"  said  I,  "that 
might  make  everything  all  right." 

"Brown,"  said  she,  "you  are  a  kind  of  leather 
angel." 

Then  we  both  laughed.  And  I  am  afraid  it  oc 
curred  to  her  that  the  ground  we  were  touching  was 
not  calculated  to  bear  a  lady  and  her  mecanicien,  for 
she  turned  and  ran  away 

It  was  not  yet  ten  o'clock,  and  I  had  something 
better  to  do  than  crawl  into  the  bed  of  straw  that 
had  been  offered  me.  It  was  not  much  more  than 
ten  miles  to  Amboise,  and  opening  the  great  gate 
as  quietly  as  I  could,  I  stepped  out  upon  the  white 
road  and  set  off  briskly  for  the  town,  my  Plan  guiding 
me  like  a  big  bright  beacon. 

What  I  meant  to  do — what  I  was  meaning  and 
wanting  at  this  present  moment  to  do — is  this. 

Being  now  at  Amboise.  having  knocked  up  the 


The  Lightning  Conductor  79 

hotel  porter  on  arriving,  I  shall  let  poor  old  Almond 
sleep  the  sleep  of  the  just  until  the  earliest  crack 
of  dawn.  Then  I  shall  wake  him,  have  my  Napier 
got  ready — if  that  hasn't  been  done  overnight — pay 
him,  press  an  extra  tip  into  his  not  unwilling  palm, 
pack  him  off  to  England,  home,  and  beauty,  after 
which  I  shall  romp  back  to  the  sleeping  farmhouse 
on  my  own  good  car. 

My  story  to  Miss  Randolph  will  be  that  while  in 
Blois  yesterday  I  heard  from  my  master.  He  is 
called  back  to  England  in  a  great  hurry,  wants  to 
leave  his  car,  and  would  be  delighted  to  let  it  out 
on  hire  at  reasonable  terms  if  driven  by  a  good,  re 
sponsible  man — like  me.  I  suppose  I  shall  have 
to  name  a  sum — say  a  louis  a  day — or  she'll  suspect 
some  game. 

She  is  sure  to  snatch  at  a  chance,  as  a  drowning 
man  at  a  straw,  and  I  pat  myself  on  the  back  for  my 
inspiration.  I  am  looking  forward  to  a  new  lease 
of  life  with  the  Napier. 

The  window  grows  grey;  I  must  call  Almond. 
How  the  Plan  works  out  you  shall  hear  in  my  next. 
An  revoir,  then. 

Your  more  than  ever  excited  friend, 
JACK  WINSTON. 


MOLLY  RANDOLPH  TO  HER  FATHER 

AMBOISE, 

November  Someihing-or-0ther« 

Dear  old  Lamb, 

Did  you  know  that  you  were  the  papa  of  a 
chameleon?  An  eccentric  combination.  But  Aunt 
Mary  says  she  has  found  out  that  I  am  one — a 
chameleon,  I  mean;  but  I  don't  doubt  she  thinks 
me  an  "eccentric  combination"  too.  And,  any 
way,  I  don't  see  how  I  can  help  being  changeable. 
Circumstances  and  motor-cars  rule  dispositions. 

I  wrote  you  a  long  letter  from  Blois,  but  little  did 
I  think  then — no,  that  isn't  the  way  to  begin.  I 
believe  my  starting-handle  must  have  gone  wrong, 
to  say  nothing  of  my  valves — I  mean  nerves. 

Last  night  we  broke  down  at  the  other  end  of 
nowhere,  and  rather  than  desert  Mr.  Micawber,  alias 
the  automobile,  I  decided  to  stop  till  next  morning 
at  a  wayside  farmhouse — the  sort  of  place,  as  Aunt 
Mary  said,  "where  anything  might  happen." 

Of  course,  I  needn't  have  stayed.  The  French 
man  I  told  you  about  in  my  last  letter  offered  to 
take  us  and  some  of  our  luggage  on  to  Amboise 
on  his  little  car;  but  I  didn't  feel  like  saying  "yes" 
to  that  proposal,  and  I  was  sorry  for  poor  Brown, 
who  had  worked  like  a  Trojan.  Besides,  to  stay 

80 


The  Lightning  Conductor  8 1 

was  an  adventure.  Monsieur  Talleyrand  stopped 
too,  and  we  had  quite  a  nice  supper  in  a  big  farm 
kitchen,  but  not  as  big  as  the  room  which  the  people 
gave  Aunt  Mary  and  me — a  very  decent  room,  with 
two  funny  high  beds  in  it.  I  couldn't  sleep  much, 
because  of  remorse  about  something  I  had  done. 
I'm  ashamed  to  tell  you  what,  but  you  needn't 
worry,  for  it  only  concerns  the  car.  And  then 
I  didn't  know  in  the  least  how  we  were  to  get  on 
again  next  day,  as  this  time  the  automobile  had 
taken  measures  to  secure  itself  a  good  long  rest. 

I'd  dropped  off  to  sleep  after  several  hours  of 
staring  into  the  dark  and  wondering  if  Brown  by 
some  inspiration  would  get  us  out  of  our  scrape, 
when  a  hand,  trying  to  find  my  face,  woke  me  up. 
"It's  come!  "  I  thought.  "They're  going  to  murder 
us."  And  I  was  just  on  the  point  of  shrieking  with 
all  my  might  to  Brown  to  save  me,  when  I  realized 
that  the  hand  was  Aunt  Mary's;  it  was  Aunt  Mary's 
voice  also  saying,  in  a  sharp  whisper,  "What's  that? 
What's  that?" 

"That,"  I  soon  discovered,  was  a  curious  sound 
which  I  suppose  had  roused  Aunt  Mary,  and  sent 
her  bounding  out  of  bed,  like  a  baseball,  in  her  old 
age.  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  in  one  corner  of  our 
room,  behind  a  calico  curtain,  was  a  queer,  low 
green  door,  which  we  had  wondered  at  and  tried  to 
open,  but  found  locked.  Now  the  sound  was  coming 
from  behind  that  door.  It  was  a  scuffling  and  stum 
bling  of  feet,  and  a  creepy,  snorting  noise. 

Even  I  was  frightened,  but  it  wouldn't  do,  on 
account  of  discipline,  to  let  Aunt  Mary  guess.  J 


8s  The  Lightning  Conductor 

just  sort  of  formed  a  hollow  square,  told  myself 
that  my  country  expected  me  to  do  my  duty,  jumped 
up,  found  matches,  lighted  our  one  candle,  and  with 
it  the  lamp  of  my  own  courage.  That  burned  so 
brightly,  I  had  presence  of  mind  to  take  the  key  out 
of  the  other  door  and  try  it  in  the  mysterious  green 
lock.  It  didn't  fit,  but  it  opened  the  door;  and  what 
do  you  think  was  on  the  other  side?  Why,  a  ladder- 
like  stairway,  leading  down  into  darkness.  But  it 
was  only  the  darkness  of  the  family  stable,  and 
instead  of  beholding  our  landlord  and  landlady 
digging  a  grave  for  us  in  a  business-like  manner, 
as  Aunt  Mary  fully  expected,  we  saw  two  cows  and 
a  horse,  and  three  of  those  silly,  surprised-looking 
French  chickens  which  are  always  running  across 
roads  under  our  automobile's  nose. 

This  was  distinctly  a  relief.  We  locked  the  door, 
and  laid  ourselves  down  to  sleep  once  more.  But — 
for  me — that  was  easier  said  than  done.  I  lay 
staring  into  blackness,  thinking  of  many  things,  until 
the  blackness  seemed  to  grow  faintly  pale,  the  way 
old  Mammy  Luke's  face  used  to  turn  ashy  when  she 
was  frightened  at  her  own  slave  stories,  which  she 
was  telling  me.  The  two  windows  took  form,  like 
grey  ghosts  floating  in  the  dark,  and  I  knew  dawn 
must  be  coming;  but  as  I  watched  the  squares 
growing  more  distinct,  so  that  I  was  sure  I  saw  and 
didn't  imagine  them,  a  light  sprang  up.  It  wasn't 
the  dawn-light,  but  something  vivid  and  sudden. 
I  was  bewildered,  for  I'd  been  in  a  dozy  mood. 
I  flew  up,  all  dazed  and  stupid,  to  patter  across 
the  cold,  painted  floor  on  my  poor  little  bare  feet. 


The  Lightning  Conductor  83 

Our  room  overlooked  the  courtyard,  and  there, 
almost  opposite  the  window  where  I  stood,  a  great 
column  of  intense  yellow  flame  was  rising  like  a 
fountain  of  fire — straight  as  a  poplar,  and  almost 
as  high.  I  never  saw  anything  so  strange,  and 
I  could  hardly  believe  that  it  wasn't  a  dream,  until 
a  voice  seemed  to  say  inside  of  me,  "Why,  it's  your 
car  that's  on  fire  I " 

In  half  a  second  I  was  sure  the  voice  was  right, 
and  at  once  I  was  quite  calm.  How  the  car  could 
have  got  on  fire  of  its  own  accord  was  a  mystery, 
unless  it  had  spontaneous  combustion,  like  that  awful 
old  man  of  Dickens,  who  burnt  up  and  left  a  greasy 
black  smudge;  but  there  was  no  time  to  think,  and 
I  only  kept  saying  to  myself,  as  I  hurried  to  slip 
on  a  few  clothes  (the  sketchiest  toilet  I  ever  made, 
just  a  mere  outline),  how  lucky  it  was  that  my 
automobile  stood  in  the  courtyard  where  there  was 
no  roof,  instead  of  being  in  the  barn,  like  Monsieur 
Talleyrand's.  And  I  knew  that  Brown  slept  in  the 
barn,  so  that,  if  it  had  happened  there,  he  might  have 
been  burnt  to  death  in  his  sleep,  which  made  me  feel 
as  if  I  should  have  to  faint  away,  even  to  imagine. 

But  I  didn't  faint.  I  tore  out  of  the  room,  as  soon 
as  I  was  dressed,  with  my  long,  fur-lined  motoring 
coat  over  my  "nighty,"  and  yelled  "Fire!"  at  the 
top  of  my  lungs.  But  I  forgot  to  yell  in  French, 
so  of  course  the  farm  people  couldn't  have  under 
stood  what  was  the  matter,  unless  they'd  seen  the 
light  from  their  windows.  It  was  still  dark  in  the 
shut-up  house,  but  somehow  I  found  my  way  down 
stairs,  and  to  the  door  by  which  we'd  all  come 


84  The  Lightning  Conductor 

trooping  in  the  evening  before.  Nobody  had  ap 
peared  yet  (though  I  fancied  I  heard  Aunt  Mary's 
frantic  voice),  so  I  concluded  that  the  farmer  and 
his  wife  must  be  outside  in  the  fields  about  their 
day's  work,  for  these  French  peasants  rise  with  the 
dawn,  or  before  it. 

;  I  pulled  open  the  door,  and  the  light  of  the  fire 
struck  right  at  my  eyes,  which  had  got  used  to  the 
darkness  in  the  passage.  There  was  the  pillar  of 
fire,  as  bright  and  straight  and  amazingly  high  as 
ever,  not  a  trace  of  the  car  to  be  seen  in  the  midst; 
but  silhouetted  against  the  yellow  screen  of  flame 
was  a  tall  black  figure  which  I  recognized  as  Brown's. 
He  was  standing  still,  looking  calmly  on,  actually 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  instead  of  trying  to 
put  out  the  fire,  and  I  was  dumbfounded,  for  always 
before  he  had  shown  himself  so  resourceful. 

I  stood  still,  too,  a  minute,  for  I  was  surprised. 
Aunt  Mary  was  having  hysterics  in  one  of  our 
windows  which  she'd  thrown  open;  and  Monsieur 
Talleyrand  had  come  close  behind  me,  it  seemed, 
though  I  didn't  know  that  then. 

I  heard  the  queer  clucking  and  roaring  of  the  fire 
which  was  drinking  gallons  of  petrol,  but  the  only 
thing  I  really  thought  of  was  Brown  with  his  hands 
in  his  pockets  while  my  car  was  burning  up.  I 
didn't  love  it — at  least  I  hadn't,  and  the  night  before 
I  had  behaved  to  it  not  at  all  in  a  gentlemanly 
manner,  but  I  couldn't  have  stood  by  like  that  to 
watch  it  die  without  moving  a  finger. 

"Oh,  Brown!  "  I  gasped  out,  running  to  him,  so 
close  that  the  fire  was  hot  on  my  face.  "  Oh,  Brown, 


The  Lightning  Conductor  85 

how  can  you?  Anybody  would  think  that  you  were 
glad." 

"And  he  is!  "  cried  a  voice  in  French  at  my  back. 
"It  was  he  who  set  your  automobile  on  fire,  made- 
moiselle.  I  myself,  who  tell  you,  saw  him  do  it." 
I  whisked  .round,  and  there  stood  Monsieur  Talley 
rand,  looking  very  picturesque  in  an  almost  theatrical 
deshabille,  with  the  firelight  shining  on  him,  just  as  if 
it  were  a  scene  on  the  stage. 

Brown  faced  round  too,  and  at  the  same  instant, 
the  fire  having  drunk  the  last  drop  of  petrol,  the 
flame  suddenly  died  down,  and  there  fell  a  curious 
silence  after  the  roaring  of  the  fire,  which  had  been 
like  a  blast.  The  woodwork  of  the  car,  the  hood 
and  the  upper  part,  as  well  as  the  wooden  wheels, 
had  all  disappeared — the  flame  had  swallowed  and 
digested  them.  Of  my  varnished  and  dignified  car 
there  remained  only  a  heap  of  twisted  bits  of  iron, 
glowing  a  dull  red.  In  the  grey  dawn  we  must  have 
looked  like  witches  at  some  secret  and  unholy  rite. 
The  going  out  of  the  light  had  an  odd  effect  upon 
us  three.  When  Monsieur  Talleyrand  launched  his 
accusation  at  Brown,  he  had  thrown  up  his  chin,  and 
the  light,  striking  on  his  eyeballs,  made  them  glow 
like  red  sparks.  But  with  the  dying  of  the  light,  the 
flash  in  his  eyes  died  too;  and  his  face  changed 
to  a  disagreeable,  ashy  grey.  At  the  same  minute, 
when  I  turned  to  Brown,  it  was  his  eyes  that  glowed, 
but  the  light  seemed  to  come  from  inside. 

I  forget  whether  I  ever  told  you  that  Brown  is 
a  very  good-looking  fellow,  too  good-looking  for 
a  mere  chauffeur.  His  face  is  like  his  name — 


86  The  Lightning  Conductor 

brown;  Ms  eyes  are  brown  too,  and  they  can  almost, 
speak.  One  can't  help  noticing  these  things,  even 
in  one's  chauffeur.  If  he  weren't  a  chauffeur,  one 
might  certainly  take  him  for  a  gentleman.  Some 
things  really  are  a  pity!  But  never  mind. 

Brown  looked  at  Monsieur  Talleyrand,  and  then 
he  said,  "You  are  a  liar."  Oh,  my  goodness,  I 
expected  murder! 

Monsieur  Talleyrand  gave  a  sort  of  leap. 

"Scoundrel,  hog,  canaille!"  he  stammered,  tremb 
ling  all  over.  "To  be  insulted  by  an  English  cad, 
a  common  chauffeur,  that  a  gentleman  cannot  call 
out,  an  incendiary " 

But  here  Brown  broke  in  with  a  "Silence!"  that 
made  me  jump.  And  the  funny  part  was  that  it  was 
he  who  looked  the  gentleman,  and  Monsieur  Talley 
rand  the  cad — quite  a  little,  mean  cad,  though  he  is 
really  handsome,  with  eyelashes  you'd  have  to 
measure  with  a  tape.  That  awful  "Silence!"  seemed 
to  blow  his  words  down  his  throat  like  a  gust  of 
wind,  and  while  he  was  getting  breath  Brown  fol 
lowed  up  his  first  shot;  but  this  time  it  was  aimed 
my  way. 

"  Do  you  believe  what  that  coward  says?"  he  flung 
at  me,  without  even  taking  hold  of  the  words  with 
"Miss"  for  a  handle.  Between  the  two  men  and  the 
excitement,  I  gasped  instead  of  answering,  and 
perhaps  he  took  silence  for  consent,  though  that 
is  such  an  old-fashioned  theory,  especially  when 
it  concerns  girls.  Anyway,  he  seemed  to  grow  three 
or  four  inches  taller,  and  his  chin  got  sqiiarer.  "So 
far  from  burning  your  car,"  said  he  (and  you  could 


The  Lightning  Conductor  87 

have  made  a  block  of  ice  out  of  each  word),  "I 
have  been  to  Amboise  to  hire  a  car  for  you,  and 
thought  I  had  been  lucky  in  securing  my  old  master's, 

"As  this  expedition  has  occupied  the  whole  night. 
I  have  really  had  no  time  for  plotting,  even  if  there 
nad  been  a  motive,  or  if  I  were  the  sort  of  man  for 
such  work.  I  hoped  you  knew  I  wasn't.  But 
there" — and  he  pointed  to  the  road  outside  the 
open  gate — "is  my  master's  car,  and  the  motor  is 
still  hot  enough  to  prove—" 

"I  don't  want  it  to  prove,"  I  found  breath  to 
exclaim.  "Of  course,  I  know  you  didn't  burn  my 
car " 

"  But  if  I  say  I  saw  him,"  cut  in  Monsieur  Talley 
rand. 

"Pooh!"  said  I.  It  was  the  only  word  I  could 
think  of  that  went  "to  the  spot,"  and  I  hurried  on 
to  Brown.  "All  I  minded  was  seeing  you  with  your 
hands  in  your  pockets.  It  didn't  seem  like  you." 

"You  don't  understand,"  said  he.  "Just  as  I 
opened  the  doors  to  drive  in  the  car  I'd  brought, 
I  saw  at  a  glance  that  there  was  something  queer 
about  yours.  The  front  seat  was  off;  and  as  I  came 
nearer  I  found  the  screw  had  been  taken  out  of  the 
petrol  tank.  With  that  I  caught  sight  of  a  flame 
creeping  along  a  tightly  twisted  piece  of  cotton 
waste — the  stuff  one  cleans  cars  with.  Then  I  knew 
that  someone  had  planned  to  set  fire  to  the  car  and 
leave  himself  time  to  escape.  I  sprang  at  it  to 
knock  away  the  waste,  but  I  was  too  late.  That 
instant  the  vapour  caught,  and  I  was  helpless  to  do 
any  good,  because  sand,  and  a  huge  lot  of  it,  was  the 


88  The  Lightning  Conductor 

only  thing  that  might  have  put  the  fire  out,  if  one 
could  have  got  it,  and  then  gone  near  enough  to 
throw  it  on.  Since  there  was  none,  the  only  thing 
to  do  was  to  stand  by;  and  as  I'd  scorched  my 
hands  a  little,  I  suppose  I  instinctively  put  them 
in  my  pockets." 

Monsieur  Talleyrand  laughed.  "You  tell  you? 
story  very  well,"  said  he,  "but " 

He  didn't  get  farther  than  that  "but,"  for  just  then 
up  came  running  the  farmer  and  his  wife  from  the 
fields,  where  they  had  seen  the  flames.  They  began 
chattering  shrilly,  in  a  dreadful  state  about  their 
buildings,  but  Brown  quieted  them  down,  pointing 
out  that  no  harm  had  been  done  to  anything  of 
theirs,  and  that  the  fire  was  out.  "Now,"  he  said, 
"since  I  didn't  burn  the  car,  who  did?  " 

I  looked  at  Monsieur  Talleyrand  because  Brown 
was  looking  at  him,  or  rather  glaring,  when  suddenly 
a  loud  exclamation  from  the  farmer  and  his  wife 
made  me  turn  to  see  what  was  going  to  happen 
next.  What  I  saw  wTas  the  most  wonderful  old 
figure  hobbling  out  of  the  house,  through  the  door 
I'd  left  open — a  mere  knotted  thread  of  an  old  thing, 
in  a  red  flannel  nightgown,  I  think  it  must  have  been, 
and  a  few  streaks  of  grey  hair  hanging  from  a  night 
cap  that  tied  up  its  flabby  chin.  It  was  the  old 
woman  who  had  breathed  so  much  in  the  dark  the 
night  before;  and  no  wonder  they  exclaimed  at  see 
ing  her  crawling  out  of  doors,  hardly  dressed. 

Somehow  I  felt  frightened;  she  was  just  like  a 
witch — horrifying,  but  pathetic  too,  so  old,  so  little 
life  left  in  her.  She  would  have  come  hobbling  on 


The  Lightning  Conductor  89 

into  the  courtyard,  but  the  farmer  stopped  her;  and 
there  she  stood  on  the  door-sill,  raising  herself  up 
and  up  on  her  stick,  until  suddenly  she  clutched 
the  farmer's  arm  and  pointed  the  stick  straight  at 
Monsieur  Talleyrand,  gabbling  out  something  which 
I  couldn't  understand. 

The  farmer  had  just  been  going  to  hustle  her  in 
side  the  house,  but  he  changed  his  mind.  "She  says 
you  set  fire  to  the  automobile,"  he  exclaimed;  "she 
saw  it  from  the  window.  She  thinks  you  will  murder 
us  .all.  Monsieur,  my  mother  has  still  her  senses. 
She  does  not  tell  foolish  lies.  You  must  go  out  of 
my  house." 

"Monstrous!"  cried  Monsieur  Talleyrand.  "Am 
I  to  be  accused  on  the  word  of  a  crazy  old  witch? 
I  advise  you  to  be  careful  what  you  say." 

"Here  is  something  else,  which  speaks  for  itself," 
Brown  said.  "Look!"  and  he  pointed  to  the  ground 
not  far  from  the  gnawed  bones  of  my  car.  We 
looked,  and  saw  some  wisps  of  the  stuff  he  had 
called  cotton- waste,  twisted  up  and  saturated  with 
oil.  "That  was  used  to  fire  the  petrol,"  he  went  on. 
"There  was  none  like  it  on  our  car,  but  you  carried 
plenty  in  yours.  I've  seen  you  use  it,  and  so,  I  think, 
has  Miss  Randolph." 

For  an  instant  Talleyrand  seemed  to  be  taken 
aback,  and  he  looked  so  pale  in  the  dim  light  that  I 
was  almost  going  to  be  sorry  for  him,  when  with  a 
sudden  inspiration  he  struck  an  attitude  before  me. 
He  had  the  air  of  ignoring  the  others,  forgetting  that 
they  existed. 

"Mademoiselle,"  he  said  in  a  low,  really  beautiful 


go  The  Lightning  Conductor 

voice,  that  might  have  drawn  tears  from  an  audience 
if  he  had  been  the  leading  man  cruelly  mistaken  for 
a  neighbouring  villain,  " chere  mademoiselle,  I  did  what 
these  canaille  accuse  me  of.  Yes,  I  did  it!  But  they 
cannot  understand  why.  Only  you  are  high  enough 
to  understand.  It  was — because  of  my  great  love  for 
you.  All  is  to  be  forgiven  to  such  love.  Cheerfully, 
a  hundred  times  over,  will  I  pay  for  this  material 
damage  I  have  done.  I  am  not  poor,  except  in 
lacking  your  love.  To  gain  an  opportunity  of  win 
ning  it,  to  take  you  from  your  brutal  chauffeur,  who 
is  not  fit  to  have  delicate  ladies  trusted  to  his  care,  I 
did  what  I  have  done,  meaning  to  lay  my  car,  myself, 
all  that  I  have  and  am,  figuratively  at  your  feet." 

If  he  had  really,  instead  of  "figuratively,"  I'm  sure 
I  couldn't  have  resisted  kicking  him,  which  would 
have  been  unladylike.  How  could  I  ever  have  thought 
he  was  nice?  Ugh!  I  could  have  strangled  him  with 
his  own  eyelashes !  Brown  was  right  about  him,  after 
all.  I  wonder  why  it  doesn't  please  one  more  to  find 
out  that  other  people  are  right? 

" I  don't  want  you  to  pay,"  said  I.  "I  only  want 
you  to  go  away." 

I've  a  dim  impression  that  I  emphasised  these 
words  with  a  gesture,  and  that  he  seized  my  hand 
before  I  could  pull  it  back.  I  also  have  a  dim  im 
pression  of  exclaiming,  "Oh,  Brown!"  in  a  frightened 
voice — just  as  silly  as  if  I'd  been  an  early- Victorian 
female.  I  wished  I  hadn't,  but  it  was  too  late. 
Brown,  evoked,  was  not  so  easily  revoked.  A  whirl 
wind  seemed  to  catch  Monsieur  Talleyrand  up,  but 
it  was  really  Brown.  They  went  together  to  visit  a 


The  Lightning  Conductor  91 

disagreeable,  shiny  green  pond  in  the  middle  of  the 
farmyard.  Brown  stopped  at  the  brink;  but  Mon 
sieur  Talleyrand  didn't  stop — I  suspect  Brown  knew 
why.  He  went  on,  and  in.  And,  oh,  Dad!  to  save 
my  life,  I  couldn't  help  laughing.  All  my  excitement 
and  everything  went  into  that  laugh — the  half-crying 
kind  I  used  to  call  the  "boo-higgles"  when  I  was  a 
little  girl — you  remember? 

I  was  afraid  the  wretch  might  hear  me,  so  I  turned 
and  fairly  ran  for  the  house.  Brown  took  some  long 
steps,  and  reached  me  before  I  got  there,  apparently 
not  the  least  concerned  in  the  splashing  sounds  which 
so  much  interested  everybody  else. 

"About  my  master's  car,  miss,"  said  he  coolly. 
"Will  you  have  it?  He  was  at  Amboise.  I'd  heard 
from  him  there,  that  if  I  knew  of  anyone  wanting  to 
hire  a  car,  his  was  in  the  market  for  the  next  few 
weeks,  as  he  was  suddenly  called  away,  and  didn't 
want  to  take  it.  It's  a  good  car — the  best  I  ever 
drove — and  he's  willing  to  let  it  go  cheap,  as  he  trusts 
me  to  drive,  and  it's  an  accommodation  to  him." 

"Oh,  I'm  delighted  to  have  it,"  I  answered,  not 
stopping  to  ask  the  price,  because  details  didn't 
seem  to  matter  at  that  moment.  "It's — it's  just 
like  the  ram  caught  in  the  bushes,  isn't  it?  And — I 
'don't  know  how  to  thank  you  enough  for  every 
thing."  I  can't  tell  exactly  what  I  meant  by  that, 
except  that  I  meant  a  lot. 

"There's  nothing  to  thank  me  for,  miss,"  aaid 
Brown,  quite  respectful  again;  but  a  queer  little 
smile  lurked  in  the  corners  of  his  mouth.  "You 
must  be  hungry,"  he  remarked.  "Shall  I  ask  them 


92  The  Lightning  Conductor 

to  have  breakfast  prepared   by  the  time  you'i 
ready?" 

I  believe  he  was  going  to  say  "dressed,"  and 
stopped  for  fear  of  hurting  my  feelings.  I  only 
stayed  long  enough  to  throw  a  "Yes,  please,"  over 
my  shoulder.  But  when  I  was  upstairs  with  Aunt 
Mary,  my  face  feeling  rather  hot,  I  didn't  begin  to 
make  my  toilet;  I  went  and  "peeked"  out  of  the 
window. 

That  unspeakable  Frenchman  was  shaking  himself 
like  a  big  dog,  and  sneaking  towards  the  house,  with 
the  farmer  at  his  heels.  The  farmer  was  a  big  fellow, 
and  dependable;  still,  I  ran  and  locked  the  door. 
I  suppose  the  Beast  finished  dressing  and  packed 
his  bag.  I  heard  nothing;  but  half  an  hour  later 
(I'd  bathed  and  dressed  like  lightning,  for  once), 
when  we  were  just  sitting  down  to  breakfast,  and 
Brown  had  come  into  the  room  to  ask  a  question, 
there  was  a  light  pattering  on  the  stairs;  the  front 
door  opened,  and  somebody  went  out.  Two  minutes 
later  came  the  whirring  of  a  motor,  and  I  jumped  up. 

"Oh,  Brown!"  I  exclaimed,  "if  he  should  have 
taken  your  car! " 

"No  fear  of  that,"  said  Brown.  "I  know  the 
sound  just  as  I  know  one  human  voice  from  another. 
That's  his  Pieper.  It's  all  right." 

Still  I  wasn't  at  ease.  "But  he  may  have  done 
something  bad  to  yours.  He's  capable  of  anything," 
I  said.  "Do  let's  go  and  see." 

Brown  flushed  up  a  little.  "  I'll  go,"  he  said.  He 
was  off  on  the  word,  racing  across  the  farmyard.  I 
couldn't  eat  my  breakfast  till  he  came  back,  which  he 


The  Lightning  Conductor  93 

did  in  a  few  minutes.  I  knew  by  his  face  before  he 
spoke  that  something  was  wrong.  "  I  was  a  fool  to 
leave  the  car  for  even  a  second  till  he  was  out  of  the 
way,"  said  the  poor  fellow.  "Every  tyre  gashed. 
No  doubt  he'd  have  liked  to  smash  up  the  car  alto 
gether  if  he'd  had  time,  but  his  object  was  to  do  his 
worst  and  get  off  scot  free.  He's  done  both.  It's 
thanks  to  you  and  your  quick  thought  that  the 
damage  is  so  small." 

"  If  it  hadn't  been  for  me  he  wouldn't  have  been 
here,"  I  almost  wept.  "Now  we're  delayed  again 
just  when  I  began  to  hope  that  all  might  be  well." 

"All  shall  be  well,"  answered  Brown  encouragingly. 
*  We'll  go  'on  the  rims'  as  far  as  Amboise." 

I  didn't  know  what  it  was  to  go  on  the  rims,  but 
when  we'd  settled  up  with  the  farmer,  and  I'd  said 
a  last,  long  good-bye  to  my  car's  bones  (which  I  made 
the  landlord  a  present  of),  I  found  out.  It's  some 
thing  like  "going  on  your  uppers."  I  don't  need  to 
explain  that,  do  I?  But  the  car  is  such  a  beauty 
that  seeing  it  with,  its  tyres  en  dishabille  seemed  an 
indignity.  Brown  couldn't  help  showing  his  pride 
in  it,  and  I  don't  wonder.  He  is  certainly  a  "Mascot " 
to  me,  for  he  has  got  me  out  of  every  scrape  I've 
been  in  since  he  "crossed  my  path,"  as  the  melo 
dramas  say.  And  now  this  lovely  car!  On  the  way 
to  Amboise  he  told  me  what  it  was  to  be  let  for. 
Only  twenty  francs  a  day.  I  protested,  because 
Rattray  had  said  that  good  cars  couldn't  be  hired  for 
less  than  twenty  pounds  a  week;  but  Brown  explained 
that  this  was  because  his  master  liked  him  to  drive  it, 
and  that  really  it  wasn't  so  cheap  as  I  thought.  I 


94  The  Lightning  Conductor 

suppose  it's  all  right.  Funny,  though,  that  I  should 
have  the  car  of  that  Mr.  John  Winston,  whose  mother 
— Lady  Brighthelmston — I  met  in  Paris,  and  pro 
mised  to  meet  again  in  Cannes.  Fancy  Aunt  Mary 
and  me  lolling  luxuriously  (I  love  that  word  "  lolling") 
in  a  snow-white  car  with  scarlet  cushions,  all  the  brass- 
work  gleaming  like  a  fireman's  helmet — the  rakiest, 
smartest  car  imaginable!  There  are  two  seats  in 
front  and  a  roomy  tonneau  behind.  The  steering  and 
other  arrangements  are  quite  different  from  those  in 
the  poor  dead  Dragon — rest  its  wicked  soul!  There's 
a  steering-wheel,  and  below  it  two  ducky  little  han 
dles  that  do  everything.  One's  the  "advance  spark 
ing  lever,"  the  other  the  "mixture  lever."  There  are 
no  horrid  belts  to  break  themselves — and  your  heart 
at  the  same  time,  but  instead  a  "change  speed  gear" 
and  a  "clutch."  I  had  my  first  lesson  in  driving, 
sitting  by  Brown  on  the  way  to  Amboise.  He 
teaches  one  awfully  well,  and  I  was  perfectly  happy 
learning,  especially  when  I  found  that  the  faster  we 
went  the  easier  the  dear  thing  is  to  steer.  I  was  so 
interested  that  I  didn't  know  a  bit  what  the  road  was 
like,  except  that  it  was  good  and  white  and  mostly 
level,  so  that  when  Brown  suddenly  said  "  There  is 
the  Chateau  of  Amboise,"  I  was  quite  startled. 

Luckily  he  was  driving  again  by  that  time,  or  I 
should  probably  have  shot  us  into  the  river  instead 
of  turning  to  the  bridge;  for  we  were  on  the  other 
side  of  the  Loire  looking  across  to  the  castle. 

You  poor,  dear,  stay-at-home  Dad,  to  think  of  your 
never  having  seen  any  of  these  lovely  places  that 
you're  nobly  sent  me  to  browse  among  I  You 


The  Lightning  Conductor  95 

you  admire  Wall  Street  more  than  French  chateaux, 
and  that  when  you  want  a  grand  view  you  can  go 
and  look  at  Brooklyn  Bridge  or  the  statue  of  Liberty 
by  night;  but  you  don't  know  what  you're  missing. 
And  if  travelling  would  really  bore  you,  why  do  you 
like  me  to  describe  things,  so  that  I  can  "give  you  a 
picture  though  my  eyes"? 

I  wonder  if  girls  who  have  lived  all  their  lives  in 
old,  old  countries  can  have  the  same  sort  of  awed, 
surprised,  almost  dream-like  feeling  that  comes  to  me 
when  I  see  these  great  feudal  castles  that  are  like 
history  in  stone?  Yes,  in  stone,  and  yet  the  stone 
seems  alive  too  as  if  it  were  the  flesh  of  history;  and 
as  I  think  of  all  the  things  that  have  happened 
behind  the  splendid  walls,  I  can  hear  history's  heart 
beating  as  if  it  and  the  world  were  young  with  me. 

This  chateau  country  of  the  Loire  must  be  one  of 
the  most  interesting  spots  on  earth,  centring  as  it 
did  the  old  Court  life  of  France,  and  Brown  says  it 
really  is  so.  He  has  travelled  tremendously  and 
remembers  everything,  though  he  is  nothing  but  a 
chauffeur. 

Each  place  we  have  come  to  I  have  thought  must 
be  the  best;  but  I  know  that  no  other  castle  will 
make  me  take  Amboise  down  off  the  pedestal  I've 
set  it  on,  in  my  mind. 

As  I  glanced  up  at  it  in  the  sunshine  the  great 
white  carved  fafade  dazzled  me.  It  looked  as  if  it 
had  been  cut  out  of  ivory.  The  bridge  rests  on  an 
island  in  the  middle  of  the  wide,  yellow,  slow-moving 
stream  of  the  Loire,  which  has  a  curiously  still  surface 
like  ice.  Brown  drove  slowly  without  my  having  to 


96  The  Lightning  Conductor 

ask.  He's  wonderful  that  way.  He  always  knows 
what  you  are  feeling,  as  if  you  had  telegraphed  him 
the  news.  And  there  before  us  lay  the  little  town  of 
Amboise,  sprinkled  along  the  river-bank  as  if  each 
house  were  a  votive  offering  on  the  shrine  of  the 
Chateau  towering  above  on  its  plateau  of  rock. 

I  couldn't  make  out  the  architecture  at  first.  The 
castle  was  just  a  vast,  dazzling  complication  of  enor 
mous  round  towers,  bastions,  terraces,  balconies,  and 
crenellations.  Oh,  those  balconies!  Instantly  I  could 
see  poor  little  fainting  Queen  Mary  held  up  by  wicked 
Catherine  de  Medici — the  record  wickedest  mother- 
in-law  of  history — to  watch  the  execution  of  the 
Huguenots.  And  then  the  row  of  heads  hanging 
from  the  balcony  afterwards,  like  terrible  red  gar 
goyles!  When  we  went  into  the  Chateau  later  the 
custodian,  or  whatever  you  call  him,  showed  us  where 
the  fine  ironwork  was  stained  and  rusted  with  the 
Huguenots'  blood. 

I  was  very  angry  with  Aunt  Mary  because  she 
kept  her  nose  in  her  Baedeker,  and  preferred  reading 
about  the  castle  to  seeing  it  when  she  had  the  chance. 
I  have  my  opinion  of  people  who  won't  take  their 
Baedeker  in  doses  either  before  or  after  meals  of 
sight-seeing;  but  Aunt  Mary  spreads  it  so  thick  over 
hers  that  what's  underneath  is  lost. 

We  drove  to  a  nice  little  hotel  tucked  away  at  the 
foot  of  the  Chateau,  for  dfjeuner,  and  to  get  rid 
of  our  luggage,  for  we'd  have  to  stop  at  Amboise 
till  the  four  new  tyres  (which  Brown  now  wired  for) 
should  arrive  from  Paris.  We  had  so  many  courses 
that  I  grew  quite  impatient,  for  I  wanted  to  be  off  to 


The  Lightning  Conductor  97 

the  castle.  And  to  save  time  I  insisted  on  Brown 
lunching  with  us.  That's  happened  before  several 
times,  so  that  it  doesn't  seem  at  all  strange  now, 
though  Aunt  Mary  fussed  at  first,  and  even  I  felt 
rather  funny.  But  the  queer  part  is,  it's  so  much 
more  difficult  to  remember  that  Brown's  not  a 
gentleman  than  to  make  an  effort  to  be  civil  to  him 
as  if  he  were  one.  Rattray  at  the  table  was  beyond 
words,  and  so  are  a  lot  of  Frenchmen  who  ought  to 
know  better;  but — you'll  laugh  at  me — I  don't  see 
how  a  duke  could  eat  any  better  than  Brown,  or  have 
nicer  hands  and  nails;  though  how  he  does  it  with 
the  car  to  clean  is  more  than  I  can  tell. 

We  came  towards  the  castle,  after  dtjeuner,  from 
the  back  through  the  town,  which  was  gay  with  booths 
and  blue  blouses  and  pretty  peasant  girls,  because  the 
market  was  being  held.  We  went  right  through  the 
crowd,  up,  up  a  sloping  path,  where  suddenly  we 
were  in  a  restful  silence,  after  the  chattering  and 
chaffering  below.  And  I  felt  as  if  we  had  got  into 
a  novel  of  Scott's  ;  for  if  we'd  been  his  characters 
he  would  have  brought  us  up  short  at  a  secretive 
door  in  a  tower,  just  like  the  one  where  we  had  to 
knock.  One  couldn't  guess  what  would  be  on  the 
other  side  of  that  tower;  and  it  was  like  walking 
on  through  the  next  chapter  of  the  same  novel 
(walking  slowly  and  with  dignity,  so  that  we  might 
"live  up  to"  the  author  of  our  being)  to  wander 
up  a  steep  road  leading  to  a  plateau  and  reach  the 
still,  formal  garden  with  the  great  castle  rising  out 
of  it. 

On  this  plateau  a  lovely  thing  simply  took  my 


98  The  Lightning  Conductor 

eyes  captive  and  wouldn't  let  them  go.  It  was  the 
most  perfect  gem  of  a  little  chapel  out  of  dreamland. 
Brown  said  it  was  "a  jewel  of  the  pure  Gothic,  one 
of  the  most  precious  of  the  florid  kind  in  France." 
Comic  to  have  one's  chauffeur  talking  to  one  like 
that,  isn't  it?  But  I'm  used  to  it  now,  and  feel  quite 
injured  if  Brown  happens  not  to  know  something  I 
ask  him  about. 

I  never  realised  what  an  important  lady  Anne 
of  Brittany  was,  till  I  was  introduced  to  her  sweet 
little  ermine  at  Blois.  Brown  hinted  then  that 
I  would  keep  on  realising  it  more  and  more  as  we 
drove  through  the  Loire  country,  and  so  I  do. 
This  chapel  was  hers — built  for  her,  and  I  envy  her 
having  it.  Couldn't  you,  Dad  dear,  just  make  a  bid, 
and  have  it  taken  over  for  our  garden  at  Lennox? 
But  no !  that  would  be  sacrilege.  It's  almost 
sacrilege  even  to  joke  about  it.  Yet,  oh,  that 
carving  of  St.  Hubert  and  his  holy  stag  over  the 
door!  I've  no  jewellery  so  lovely  as  that  cameo  in 
stone ;  and  I've  got  to  leave  it  behind  in  Europe. 

Poor  Charles  the  Eighth,  too,  seemed  to  come 
to  us  like  a  human,  every  day  young  man  one  knew 
when  we  saw  the  low  doorway  where  he  knocked 
his  head  and  killed  himself,  running  in  a  great  hurry 
to  play  tennis.  How  little  he  guessed  when  he 
started  that  he  should  never  have  that  game,  and 
why!  I  wonder  if  Anne  was  sorry  when  he  died,  or 
if  she  liked  having  another  wedding  and  being  a 
queen  all  over  again  when  she  married  Louis  the 
Twelfth? 

I  should  have  thought  more  about  the  ladies'  love 


THi£    CHAPEL   OF   THE   CHATEAU    OF    AMBO1SE. 


The  Lightning  Conductor  99 

affairs,  only  I  got  so  interested  in  an  oubliette,  and 
in  a  perfectly  Titanic  round  tower,  with  an  inclined 
plane  corkscrewing  up,  round  and  round  inside 
it,  so  broad  and  so  gradual  that  horses  and  car 
riages  used  in  old,  old  days  to  be  driven  from  the 
town-level  up  to  the  top.  "Only  think  what  fun, 
Brown,"  I  couldn't  help  saying,  "if  we  could  drive 
the  car  up  here! "  "The  idea!  "  sniffed  Aunt  Mary. 
"As  if  they'd  allow  such  a  thing!"  But  Brown 
didn't  answer;  he  just  looked  thoughtfully  at  the 
gradient. 

We  went  up,  too,  on  the  top  of  one  of  the  great 
towers  of  the  castle  itself,  and  it  was  glorious  to 
stand  there  looking  away  over  the  windings  of  the 
river.  We  were  at  a  bend  midway  between  Blois 
and  Tours,  and  ever  so  far  off  we  could  see  two 
little  horns  sticking  up  over  the  undulations  of 
the  land.  They  were  the  towers  of  the  cathedral 
of  Tours;  and  in  that  same  direction  Brown  showed 
me  a  queer  thing  like  a  long,  thin  finger  pointing 
at  the  sky — the  Lanterne  of  Rochecorbon.  They 
used  to  flash  signals  from  it  all  the  way  to  Amboise, 
and  so  on  to  Blois,  when  any  horror  happened 
with  which  they  were  particularly  pleased,  like 
a  massacre  of  Huguenots. 

Now,  most  patient  gentleman,  at  last  I've  finished 
my  harangue.  I'm  ashamed  to  think  how  long  it  is, 
but  I'm  writing  wrapped  up  in  a  warm  coat,  under 
a  tilleul  in  the  Chateau  garden,  where  I've  been 
allowed  to  bring  my  campstool.  Do  you  know  what 
a  tilleul  is?  I  don't  believe  you  do.  I  didn't  till 
the  other  day;  but  I  shan't  tell  you,  except  that  the 


ioo  The  Lightning  Conductor 

very  name  suggests  to  me  leisured  ease  and  saunter 
ing  courtiers.  You  must  come  over  to  France  and 
find  out — and  incidentally  fetch  me  home — only  not 
yet,  please,  oh,  not  yet.  As  for  the  tilleul,  if  you've 
any  romance  left  in  your  dear  old  body  you'd  love 
sitting  under  it,  even  in  winter.  If  it  were  summer, 
with  the  limes  in  blossom — well,  the  best  way  to  ex 
press  my  feeling  is  to  remark  that  if,  in  June  moon 
light,  under  a  tilleul,  a  man  I  hated  should  propose,  to 
me,  I'd  believe  for  the  moment  I  loved  him  and  say 
"Yes — yes!"  But  you  need  not  be  frightened;  it 
isn't  summer  or  moonlight,  and  there's  no  man  except 
Brown  within  a  hundred  miles  of  your  silly 

MOLLY. 


MOLLY  RANDOLPH  TO  HER  FATHER 

TOURS,  December  3 . 

Three  days  since  I  wrote,  blessed  old  Thing,  but 
it  seems  three  times  three,  for  all  the  hours  have 
been  as  cramfull  as  you  used  to  fill  my  stocking  at 
Christmas. 

We  couldn't  get  away  from  Amboise,  as  we  ex 
pected,  because  the  tyres  didn't  arrive  till  late  in 
the  evening.  I  knew  it  must  be  a  long,  tedious 
business  fixing  them  on,  so  I  never  dreamed  of 
starting  next  morning;  but  when  morning  came,  and 
with  it  the  chambermaid  and  my  bath,  there  was 
a  note  from  Brown,  written  in  a  hand  a  lot  nicer 
than  my  poor  "fist,"  announcing  that  the  car  was 
ready,  and  if  I  would  like  a  surprise,  might  he 
"respectfully  suggest"  that  I  should  come  down 
stairs  as  soon  as  possible.  You  can  imagine  that 
I  didn't  "  stand  on  the  order  of  my  going. "  My  hair 
crinkled  with  surprise  at  being  done  so  quickly,  and 
I  was  in  such  a  hurry  that  I  nearly — but  not  quite — 
slid  down  the  balusters. 

Brown  was  at  the  front  door,  with  the  car  all 
politely  polished,  and  seeming  to  stand  upon  tiptoe 
on  its  big  new  tyres.  But  smart  as  the  car  was,  it 
was  nothing  to  the  chauffeur.  He  looked  like  a  sort 
of  male  Cinderella  just  after  the  fairy  godmother 

lot 


IO2  The  Lightning  Conductor 

had  waved  her  wand;  only  instead  of  a  ball  dress 
she  had  given  him,  in  place  of  his  black  leather, 
a  suit  of  grey  clothes;  one  of  those  high,  turnover 
collars  I  love  on  a  good-looking  man;  a  dark  neck 
tie,  and  what  we  call  a  " Derby"  hat  and  the  English 
call  a  "bowler. "  He  was  nice!  I  don't  know  if  I'm 
a  judge  of  a  man's  clothes,  but  to  me  they  seemed 
as  good  form  as  any  tailor  in  the  world  could  cut. 
Perhaps  the  Honourable  John  gave  them  to  him. 
Poor  dear!  he's  far  too  fine  a  fellow  really  to  have 
to  wear  another  man's  cast-off  garments;  but  I 
suppose  Providence  must  know  best,  and,  anyhow, 
I'm  sure  the  H.  J.  never  looked  half  as  nice  in  the 
things. 

Brown  had  on  also  a  mysterious  air,  which  seemed 
to  go  with  the  clothes,  and  he  asked  if  I'd  mind 
taking  a  short  run  with  him,  without  knowing  before 
hand  where  I  was  going.  I  said  that,  on  the  contrary, 
I  should  like  it.  That  seemed  to  please  him.  He 
helped  me  in  (not  that  I  needed  it),  the  car  started 
with  a  touch,  and  we  began  to  thread  the  streets 
of  the  town  behind  the  Chateau,  I  wondering  what 
was  going  to  happen.  When  I  had  been  in  this  car 
before,  it  was  to  travel  "on  the  rims,"  you  know. 
Now,  on  our  four-plump  new  Michelins  from  Paris 
it  was  like  being  in  a  balloon,  so  easy  was  the  motion 
even  over  the  badly  paved  streets. 

We  wound  round  under  the  high  wall  of  the 
Chateau,  and  came  in  a  few  minutes  to  a  huge 
gateway.  As  we  slowed  down  this  gateway  opened 
mysteriously  from  within  to  show  a  dim  corkscrew 
of  a  road  winding  upward.  I  opened  my  mouth  to 


The  Lightning  Conductor  103 

ask  an  astonished  question;  then  I  thought  better 
of  it  and  kept  still,  though  I  know  my  eyes  must 
have  been  snapping  when  Brown  actually  drove  the 
car  in.  The  gateway  clanged  behind  us,  as  if  by 
enchantment,  shutting  us  into  a  twilight  region,  and 
behold,  we  were  mounting  the  incline  of  the  great 
tower,  up  which,  perhaps,  nobody  had  ever  driven 
since  the  days  of  Mary  Stuart. 

Wasn't  it  kind  of  Brown  to  remember  my  wish 
(which  even  I  had  forgotten!)  to  drive  up  the  tower? 
I  could  hardly  thank  him  enough  for  such  a  new 
and  thrilling  sensation  as  it  was,  twisting  up  and  up, 
seeming  to  float  in  the  vast  hollow  of  the  passage, 
the  exquisite  carved  and  vaulted  roof  giving  back 
a  rythmical  reverberation  of  the  throbbing  of  our 
motor. 

I  couldn't  even  say  "thank  you,"  though,  except 
in  my  thoughts,  till  we  got  to  the  top  (which  we  did 
much  too  soon),  for  somehow  it  would  have  broken 
the  charm  to  speak.  But  I  think  Brown  understood 
that  I  appreciated  it  all,  and  what  he  had  done. 

At  the  top  a  big  doorway  stood  open,  and  by  it 
one  of  the  delightful,  grizzled,  dignified  old  dears 
who  must  have  been  made  guardians  of  the  Chateau, 
because  they  fit  so  well  into  the  picture.  I  thought, 
though,  that  this  one  looked  different  from  before, 
for  some  reason  quite  flurried  and  almost  scared. 
I  suppose  it  must  have  been  the  car  and  the  unusual- 
ness  that  upset  him;  but  Brown  drove  out  splendidly, 
stopping  in  the  terrace-garden. 

"At  that  door,"  said  the  charming  old  fellow, 
"Francis  the  First  of  France  received  Henry  the 


IO4  The  Lightning  Conductor 

Eighth  of  England,  who  with  a  train  of  a  hundred 
knights  rode  up  the  sloping  way  in  the  tower.  To-day 
is  the  first  time  that  an  automobile  has  ever  been 
inside  the  doors;  therefore,  mademoiselle,  you  have 
just  been  making  history."  And  he  bowed  so 
deliciously  that  I  could  have  cried,  because  I  hadn't 
my  purse  with  me  to  give  him  a  ''guerdon";  that 
would  have  been  the  only  word,  if  I  had  had  it. 
Fortunately  Brown  had.  Something  yellow  glittered 
as  it  passed  from  hand  to  hand,  and  the  old  French 
man  (so  dramatic,  like  most  of  his  countrymen) 
bowed  again  and  took  off  his  hat  with  a  flourish. 
If  the  something  hadn't  been  yellow,  but  only  white, 
I  wonder  if  he  would  have  let  us  make  that  splendid, 
sweeping  circle  round  the  gardens  before  we  plunged 
back  into  the  cool  gloom  of  the  tower? 

Oh,  that  descent !  I  feel  breathless,  just  remember 
ing  it,  but  it  was  a  glorious  kind  of  breathlessness, 
like  you  feel  when  you  go  tobogganing — only  more 
so.  Brown  took  it  at  tremendous  speed,  but  I  wasn't 
a  bit  afraid,  for  I  trust  him  utterly  as  a  driver.  If 
he  said  he  could  take  me  safely  over  Niagara  Falls, 
and  looked  straight  at  me  in  a  way  he  has  when 
he  said  it,  I  believe  I'd  go — unless,  of  course,  you 
objected! 

I  found  myself  thinking  of  Poe's  descent  of  the 
Maelstrom,  and  when  I  said  so  to  Brown  afterwards, 
it  turned  out  that  he'd  read  it.  He  had  the  car 
perfectly  in  hand,  and  steered  it  to  a  hair's  breadth. 
We  were  down  in  a  moment — or  it  seemed  so;  and 
coming  out  into  the  bright  little  streets  was  like 
waking  up  after  a  strange  dream.  In  three  minutes 


The  Lightning  Conductor  105 

more  we  were  at  the  door  of  our  hotel,  and  I  really 
was  asking  myself  if  I  had  dreamed  it. 

"Brown,"  said  I,  "I  told  you  once  before  that  you 
were  a  leather  angel.  Now  I  believe  you  are  a  grey 
tweed  Genie.  This  has  been  the  nicest  morning  of 
my  life.  But  you  really  must  tell  me  how  much  you 
paid  that  custodian,  and  let  me  give  you  back  the 
money  at  once.'* 

He  interrupted  himself  in  the  midst  of  a  beaming 
smile  to  wrinkle  his  eyebrows  together.  "It's  been 
a  nice  morning  for  me,  too,  miss,"  said  he  quite 
humbly;  "but  it  will  half  spoil  it  if  you  won't  let  it 
stand  as  it  is.  It  was  only  a  few  francs,  and  as  you 
pay  me  a  good  screw,  I  can  well  afford  it.  You're 
always  so  good,  that  I  know  you'd  be  sorry  to  hurt 
my  feelings." 

Well,  of  course  I  would;  so  I  couldn't  say  any 
more,  could  I?  Though  before  all  these  motor-car 
wonders  began  it  would  have  felt  odd  to  take  a 
"treat"  from  one's  servant. 

Now,  Dad,  I'm  getting  conscience-stricken,  and 
keep  wondering  with  every  paragraph  (especially 
what  I  call  my  "descriptive"  paragraphs)  if  I'm 
boring  you.  I  won't  give  you  our  daily  programme 
en  masse.  I'll  just  sum  things  up  by  saying  that 
we've  simply  lived,  moved,  and  had  our  being  in,  on, 
or  at  castles.  This  country  of  the  Loire  is  a  sort  of 
fairyland,  where  everybody  had  a  castle,  or  at  the 
very  least  a  lordly  dwelling-place  that  was  more 
fortress  than  private  house.  You  can't  look  up  or 
down  the  river  but  that  on  every  hill  you  see  a 
chateau,  with  enough  history  clustering  about  it  to 


io6  The  Lightning  Conductor 

make  up  a  fat  volume.  How  they  all  escaped  the 
Revolution  is  a  marvel.  But  they  have;  and  if 
they've  been  much  restored,  it  is  so  cleverly  done 
that  the  most  critical  eyes  are  deceived. 

If  I  could  live  in  one  of  the  "show"  chateaux,  I'd 
choose  Chenonceaux.  We  drove  to  it  on  the  day  of 
the  Tower,  as  I've  labelled  it  in  my  book  of  memory, 
" taking  it  in"  on  our  way  to  Tours.  It's  no  use 
your  making  a  note  of  that  wish  of  mine,  though 
Dad,  and  trying  to  buy  it,  because  somebody  else 
has  done  that  already.  But  if  you  can  find  a  river 
as  pretty  as  the  Cher  (an  appropriate  name  for  the 
little  daughter  of  the  Loire,  on  which — over  which, 
literally,  Chenonceaux  stands),  you  might  build  me 
one  on  the  same  pattern,  so  I'll  give  you  a  general 
idea  of  what  the  castle  is  like. 

Let  me  see,  what  is  it  like?  To  make  a  com 
parison  would  be  giving  to  an  airy  nothing  a  local 
habitation  and  a  name.  Not  that  Chenonceaux  is 
nothing — quite  the  opposite;  but  it  leaves  in  the 
mind  an  impression  of  airiness  and  gaiety,  sweet  and 
elusive  as  one  of  those  quaint  French  chansons  you 
like  me  to  sing  you,  with  my  guitar,  on  a  summer 
evening.  I  think,  even  if  I  hadn't  been  told,  I  should 
have  felt  instinctively  that  it  must  have  been  built  to 
please  a  pretty,  capricious  woman.  If  such  a  woman 
could  be  turned  into  a  house,  she  would  look  like 
Chenonceaux,  and  wouldn't  suffer  by  the  change. 
Perhaps  Diane  de  Poitiers  isn't  a  proper  object  of 
sympathy  for  a  well-brought-up  young  lady  like 
Chauncy  Randolph's  daughter;  but  I  can't  help  pity 
ing  her,  because  that  horrid  old  frump  of  a  Catherine 


The  Lightning  Conductor  107 

de  Medici  grabbed  it  away  from  her  before  Henry  the 
Second  was  hardly  cold  in  his  grave.  Think  how 
Diane,  who  had  loved  the  place,  must  have  felt  to 
fancy  that  stuffy  Catherine  in  her  everlasting  black 
dresses,  squatting  in  her  beautiful  rooms!  We  saw 
those  rooms,  by  the  way,  for  we  came  on  one  of  the 
days  when  people  are  allowed  to  go  through  the 
Chateau  (Brown  had  planned  that),  and  the  clever 
millionaires  who  own  it  have  had  the  sense  and  the 
grace  to  leave  everything  just  as  it  was,  at  least  in 
Catherine's  time.  And  one  can  take  the  bad, 
Catherine  taste  out  of  one's  mouth  by  thinking  of 
lovely  little  Mary  Stuart  singing  like  a  lark  through 
the  rooms,  and  living  there,  and  in  the  garden  the 
happiest  days  that  she  was  ever  to  know. 

One  wouldn't  suppose  that  a  gloomy,  plotting  mind 
like  Catherine's  would  have  had  a  place  in  it  for 
creating  beauty;  but  it  had  its  one  ornamental 
corner,  or  she  couldn't  have  thought  out  the  bridge- 
gallery  thrown  across  the  Cher,  springing  from  the 
original  building  and  spanning  the  river  to  the  farther 
shore. 

There  are  two  storeys  over  the  bridge,  long  cor 
ridors,  all  windows,  and  lovely  green  and  gold 
river  lights,  netted  over  the  floors  and  walls — the 
most  exquisite  effect.  I  walked  there,  calling  up  the 
spirits  of. vanished  queens  and  princesses — the  "dear, 
dead  women,"  seeing  "all  the  gold  that  used  to  fall 
and  hang  about  their  shoulders."  Oh,  I've  got  the 
quotation  wrong,  but  it's  Aunt  Mary's  fault,  for  at 
this  very  minute  she's  reading  aloud  to  herself  in  a 
guide-book  about  Rousseau  and  a  lot  of  other  shining 


io8  The  Lightning  Conductor 

lights  who  used  to  visit  Chenonceaux  when  it  be 
longed  to  Monsieur  and  Madame  Dupin;  but  those 
days  were  comparatively  modern,  so  I  don't  take 
much  interest.  Nothing  at  Chenonceaux  seems  worth 
while  unless  it  happened  before  the  days  of  Charles 
the  Ninth. 

Tours  looked  at  first  sight  very  sedate  and  grey, 
after  Chenonceaux,  for  the  airy  picture  of  the  castle 
had  kept  floating  before  my  eyes  during  our  run.  It 
seems  to  me  we  are  always  on  the  other  side  of  the 
river  from  things,  and  have  to  get  to  them  by  cross 
ing  long  bridges.  We  did  it  again  at  Tours,  and 
it  was  particularly  long,  and  very  fine.  But  it 
was  evening,  and  dim  and  bitterly  cold;  and  I'm 
afraid  I  shouldn't  have  paid  as  much  attention  to  it 
as  I  did  if  Brown  hadn't  said  that  Balzac  called  it 
"one  of  the  finest  monuments  of  France."  And  then 
in  a  minute,  at  the  entrance  to  the  town,  we  saw  two 
ghostly  white  statues  glimmering  in  a  wide,  green 
place.  "There,  miss,  are  the  two  tutelary  geniuses  of 
this  part  of  France,"  said  Brown;  "Rabelais  and 
Descartes."  By  that  time  we  had  flashed  past,  but  I 
screwed  my  neck  round  to  look  back  at  them  till 
I  got  a  "crick"  in  it.  Have  you  ever  noticed  that 
most  of  the  things  people  tell  you  to  look  at,  or  that 
you  particularly  want  to  see  in  life,  are  always  be 
hind  your  back  or  on  one  side,  as  if  to  give  you  the 
greatest  possible  trouble?  It  seems  as  if  there  must 
be  a  "moral  in  it,"  as  Alice's  Duchess  would  have 
said. 

Tours  appeared  that  evening  (I  have  a  motive  for 
the  emphasis)  to  consist  of  one  long,  straight  street; 


The  Lightning  Conductor  109 

and  turning  to  the  left  at  the  end,  we  pulled  up  at 
the  door  of  a  hotel.  Just  an  ordinary-looking  hotel 
it  was  on  the  outside,  and  I  little  thought  what  my 
impressions  of  it  would  be  by-and-by. 

I  was  tired,  not  so  much  physically  from  what 
we  had  done,  but  with  the  feeling  that  my  capacity 
for  admiring  and  enjoying  things  had  been  filled  up 
and  brimmed  over,  so  that  a  drop  more  in  would 
actually  hurt.  Do  you  know  that  sensation?  It  was 
just  the  mood  to  appreciate  warmth  and  cosiness. 
We  got  both.  Aunt  Mary  and  I  had  two  bedrooms 
opening  off  a  sitting-room;  dear,  old-fashioned 
rooms,  and,  above  all,  French  old-fashioned,  which 
to  me  is  fascinating.  We  made  ourselves  as  pretty 
as  Nature  ordained  us  severally  to  be,  and  went 
downstairs.  The  dining-room  was  our  first  big  sur 
prise.  It  was  almost  worthy  of  one  of  the  chateaux, 
with  its  dignified  tapestried  and  wainscotted  walls, 
and  its  big,  branching  candelabra.  I'm  sure  if  we'd 
been  dining  at  a  chateau  we  shouldn't  have  got  a 
better  dinner.  I  don't  think  anything  ever  tasted  so 
good  to  me  in  my  life,  and  I  couldn't  help  wondering 
how  poor,  tired  Brown  was  faring  while  we  lazy  ones 
feasted  in  state  in  the  salle  d  manger.  I  thought 
of  you,  too,  for  you  would  have  loved  the  things  to 
eat.  They  were  rich  and  Southern,  and  tasted  in 
one's  mouth  just  the  way  the  word  "Provence" 
sounds  in  one's  ear.  Aunt  Mary  had  read  in  one 
of  her  ubiquitous  guide-books  that  Touraine  as  well 
as  Provence  is  famous  for  its  "succulent  cooking," 
and  for  once  a  guide-book  seems  to  be  right.  They 
had  all  sorts  of  tricky,  rich  little  dishes  for  dinner — 


HO  The  Lightning  Conductor 

rillettes  and  other  things  which  would  have  made 
your  mouth  water  (though  if  it  did,  and  I  were  by, 
I'd  shut  my  eyes),  and  the  head  waiter  told  me  when 
I  asked,  that  they  were  specialties  of  Tours  and  of 
the  hotel.  I  think  he  must  be  a  specialty  of  Tours 
and  the  hotel  too.  He  has  the  softest,  most  engaging, 
yet  dignified  manner ;  and  the  way  he  has  of  setting 
down  a  dish  before  you  seems  to  season  it  and  give 
you  a  double  appetite.  There's  another  man  in  the 
hotel,  too,  who  adds  to  the  "aroma";  he's  like  a 
"bush  to  wine,"  or  something  I've  heard  you  say. 
By  day  he's  valet  de  chambre,  in  a  scarlet  waistcoat 
no  brighter  than  his  cheeks  and  eyes;  at  dinner 
he's  a  waiter  in  correct  "^ress"  clothes,  and  then 
he  goes  back  to  valeting  again  till  midnight.  He 
would  put  me  in  a  good  temper  if  I  had  started 
out  to  murder  someone,  and  when  he  brought  us  the 
wine  list,  waiting  with  a  cherry-cheeked  smile  to  see 
what  we  would  choose,  nothing  seemed  worthy  of 
him  except  champagne;  but  champagne  looked  so 
dissipated  for  two  lone  females.  However,  I  had 
decided  to  have  some,  to  drink  the  health  of  the 
new  car,  and  perhaps — a  little — to  shock  Aunt  Mary, 
when  the  diamond-eyed  one  respectfully  inquired, 
in  nice  Southern  French,  how  ^ve  would  like  to  try 
a  "little  wine  of  the  country,  sparkling  Vouvray; 
quite  a  ladies'  wine."  So  we  compromised  with 
Vouvray.  It  was  too  ridiculously  cheap,  but  it  had 
a  delicious  flavour,  and  Aunt  Mary  and  I,  being 
merely  females,  agreed  that  it  was  more  delicate  than 
any  champagne  we  had  ever  tasted.  We  drank  your 
health  and  the  car's,  and  then  I  had  a  sudden  inspi- 


The  Lightning  Conductor  in 

ration.  "To  the  'Lightning  Conductor'!"  said  I, 
raising  my  glass. 

;'What  lightning  conductor?  And  what  do  you 
mean?"  inquired  Aunt  Mary. 

"The  one  and  only  Lightning  Conductor — Brown," 
I  explained.  "  I  have  just  thought  of  that  as  a  good 
name  for  him,  now  that  he  has  a  chance  to  spin  us 
across  the  world  at  such  a  pace  with  a  new  car. " 

"I  do  hope,  my  dear  Molly,"  severely  remarked 
Aunt  Mary,  setting  down  her  glass  with  an  indignant 
little  thud,  "you  will  not  call  that  young  man  any 
such  thing  to  his  face.  He  has  already  been  allowed 
far  too  many  liberties,  and  though  I  must  say  he  has 
not  to  any  great  extent  taken  undue  advantage  of 
them  so  far,  he  may  break  out  at  any  moment." 

I'm  sorry  to  tell  you,  Dad,  that  I  said  "Pooh!" 
and  asked  her  if  she  thought  Brown  were  an  active 
volcano.  Anyway,  whether  I  call  him  so  "to  his 
face"  or  not,  the  "Lightning  Conductor"  he  is,  and 
will  remain  for  me,  though  perhaps  he  wouldn't  be 
flattered  at  being  "launched  and  christened"  with 
mere  Vouvray. 

I  didn't  expect  to  like  Tours  half  as  much  as  I 
do.  But  we  have  been  here  for  three  days,  and 
though  I  thought  at  first  there  was  only  one  long 
street,  we've  found  something  interesting  to  see 
every  hour  of  daylight — so  I  write  in  the  evenings 
in  our  cosy  sitting-room.  Or  if  I  don't  write,  I  read 
Balzac.  I  never  appreciated  him  as  I  do  here,  on 
his  "native  heath."  I  have  begged  Brown  to  name 
his  master's  car  "Balzac,"  because  it,  too,  is  a  "vio 
lent  and  complicated  genius,"  I've  gazed  at  the 


112  The  Lightning  Conductor 

house  where  Balzac  was  born;  I've  photographed  the 
Balzac  medallion;  I've  stuffed  my  trunks  with  illus 
trated  editions  of  Balzac's  books;  and  I've  gone 
to  see  everything  I  could  find,  which  he  ever  spoke 
about.  His  Curt  de  Tou*s  is  the  most  harrowing 
story  I  ever  read;  and  the  strange  little  house  in 
the  shadow  of  the  cathedral,  with  one  of  the  great 
buttresses  planting  its  enormous  foot  in  the  wee 
garden,  fascinates  me.  There  lived  the  horrible 
Mademoiselle  Gamard,  and  there,  with  her,  lodged 
the  wicked  Cure,  and  the  poor,  good  little  Cur£,  over 
whose  childlike,  gentle  stupidity  and  agony  I  half 
cried  my  eyes  out  last  night.  But  Balzac's  French 
discourages  me.  He  must  have  had  a  wonderful 
vocabulary.  I  am  always  finding  words  on  every 
page  which  I  never  saw  before. 

I  don't  like  cathedrals  much  as  a  rule,  unless 
there's  something  really  extraordinary  about  them; 
but  I  love  the  big,  grey,  Gothic  cathedral  of  Tours. 
It  seems  a  different  grey  from  any  other,  not  cold 
and  forbidding,  but  warm  and  very  soft,  as  if  it  were 
made  of  sealskin.  I  suppose  that  is  partly  the  effect 
of  the  beautiful  carvings  of  the  tall,  tall  front.  I  feel 
as  if  I  should  like  to  smooth  and  caress  it  with  my 
hand.  And  it  is  beautiful  inside.  Somehow  it  is  so 
individual  that  it  gives  you  a  welcome,  as  if  it  meant 
to  be  your  friend. 

The  streets  of  old  Tours  are  so  intricate  that 
Aunt  Mary  and  I  would  never  have  known  where 
to  go,  but  Brown,  who  has  been  here  before,  has 
guided  us  everywhere.  He  took  us  to  see  the  house 
gi  Tristan  the  Permit,  and  an  adorable  little  convent, 


The  Lightning  Conductor  113 

which  is  called  the  Petit  St.  Martin,  with  lovely 
Renaissance  carving,  and  actually  a  tilleul  He 
showed  us  the  oldest  house  in  Tours,  the  quaintest 
building  you  could  imagine,  standing  on  a  corner, 
with  lots  of  other  very  old  houses  on  the  same  street. 
And  the  Charlemagne  Tower — I'm  not  sure,  but  I 
liked  that  the  best  of  all — and  a  marvellous  fourteenth- 
century  house,  a  perfect  lacework  of  carving,  which 
has  been  restored,  and  is  called  the  Maison  Gouin, 
after  the  rich  man  who  lives  in  it.  Oh,  I  forgot  to 
tell  you,  I  have  bought  your  favourite  Quentin 
Durward,  and  am  sandwiching  him  with  Balzac. 
Reading  him  over  again  in  this  country  was  Brown's 
idea  for  me,  and  I'm  obliged  to  him  for  the  "tip." 
Speaking  of  tips  reminds  me  I  really  ought  to  give 
him  one — a  very  large  one,  I'm  sure,  And  yet  it 
will  be  awkward  offering  it,  I'm  afraid.  I  know  I 
shall  stammer  and  be  an  idiot  generally;  but  I  shall 
prop  my  courage  with  the  reflection  that,  after  all, 
he  is  a  chauffeur,  and  perhaps  has,  in  his  heart,  been 
wondering  why  I  haven't  given  him  anything  before. 
Yesterday  I  saw  palm  trees,  growing  in  the  place, 
and  kissed  my  hand  to  them,  because  they  told 
me  that  we  were  on  the  threshold  of  the  South. 
Another  thing  in  Tours  which  suggests  the  South, 
I  think,  is  the  patisserie.  Aunt  Mary  and  I  have 
discovered  a  confectioner's  to  conjure  with;  but 
Tours  seems  to  have  discovered  him  long  ago,  for 
all  the  "  beauty  and  fashion  "  of  the  town  go  there 
for  coffee  and  cakes  in  the  afternoon.  We  do  like 
wise — when  we  have  time  ;  and  yesterday  Aunt 
Mary  ate  twelve  little  cakes,  each  one  different  from 


U4  The  Lightning  Conductor 

the  other.  You  see,  they  are  so  good,  and  she  said, 
as  a  conscientious  tourist,  she  thought  she  ought  to 
try  every  kind  in  the  shop,  so  as  to  know  which  was 
nicest.  But  she  felt  odd  afterwards,  and  refused  one 
or  two  of  the  best  courses  at  dinner. 

The  way  that  we  have  used  our  time  at  Tours 
is  very  much  to  our  credit,  I  think — or  rather  to  the 
Lightning  Conductor's.  In  the  mornings  Brown  has 
taken  us  on  excursions  outside  the  town,  and  in 
the  afternoons,  before  dark,  we  have  "done"  the 
town  itself,  as  Aunt  Mary  would  say,  though  I  hate 
the  expression  myself.  But  one  whole  day  out  of 
our  three  we  spent  in  running  with  the  car  to  Lan- 
geais  and  Azay-le-Rideau. 

That  new  car  is  a  treasure,  and  Brown  drives  as  if 
there  were  a  sort  of  sympathy  between  him  and  it. 
We  go  at  a  thrilling  pace  sometimes,  but  that  is  only 
when  we  have  a  long,  straight  road,  empty  as  far  as 
the  eye  can  see.  He  is  very  considerate  to  "horse- 
drivers,"  as  he  calls  them,  and  he  says  "for  the 
sake  of  the  sport"  everyone  driving  an  automobile 
should  be  careful  of  the  rights  of  other  persons  on 
the  road.  He  slows  down  at  once,  or  even  stops  the 
car  altogether,  if  we  meet  a  restive  horse.  Once  he 
got  out  and  pacified  a  silly  beast  that  was  nervous, 
leading  it  past  the  car,  and  when  it  was  quite  quiet 
the  old  peasant  who  was  driving  exclaimed  that  if 
all  automobilists  were  like  us  there  would  never  be 
complaints.  We  managed  to  make  up  for  lost  time, 
though;  and  when  Brown  "lets  her  out,"  as  fee  calls 
it,  until  we  are  going  as  fast  as  a  quick  train,  I  can 
tell  you  it  is  something  worth  living  for.  When  the 


The  Lightning  Conductor  115 

country  is  very  beautiful  we  drive  slowly,  and  save 
our  "spurts"  for  the  uninteresting  parts. 

I  know  you've  read  Balzac's  Duchesse  de  Langeais, 
in  English,  for  it  was  I  who  gave  it  to  you.  I  don't 
suppose  she  ever  lived,  really,  at  the  Chateau  de 
Langeais  or  anywhere  else;  but  the  thought  of  her 
made  Langeais  even  more  interesting  to  me  than  it 
would  have  been  if  she'd  been  erased  from  the 
picture. 

It's  a  great,  grey,  frowning,  turreted  and  crene 
lated  fortress-house,  and  I  felt  so  much  obliged  to 
it  for  having  kept  its  practicable  drawbridge.  We 
drove  almost  up  to  the  door,  through  a  clean,  very 
old  little  town,  and  just  opposite  the  entrance  was  a 
quaint  house  where  Brown  said  Rabelais  had  lived. 
I  don't  believe  Aunt  Mary  knew  anything  about 
Rabelais.  However,  she  eagerly  Kodaked  the  house, 
and  later,  when  I  gravely  mentioned  to  her  that 
Rabelais  was  the  kind  you  wouldn't  allow  me  to 
read,  but  of  course  she  might,  if  she  liked,  she  gave 
a  squeak  of  dismay,  and  threatened  to  waste  all  her 
films  rather  than  let  a  photographer  see  that  one 
when  they  went  to  be  developed.  I  do  hope  I  shan  't 
be  an  old  maid  ! 

The  Parisian  millionaire  who  owns  the  Chateau, 
and  lives  in  it  part  of  the  year,  must  be  a  wonder 
fully  generous,  public-spirited  man.  Only  think,  he 
has  spent  thousands  and  thousands  in  restoring  the 
castle,  in  keeping  up  the  lovely  garden,  and  in 
having  all  the  rooms  exquisitely  furnished  and  deco 
rated  exactly  in  the  period  of  wicked  Louis  the 
Eleventh  and  Charles  the  Eighth.  But  instead  of 


n6  The  Lightning  Conductor 

keeping  these  beautiful  things  for  himself  and  his 
family  and  friends,  he  lets  everybody  have  the 
benefit,  not  even  making  an  exception  of  his  own 
private  rooms.  Here  Anne  of  Brittany  was  very 
much  to  the  fore  again,  for  she  was  married  to 
Charles  at  Langeais,  and  we  went  into  the  room 
of  the  wedding.  I  should  have  liked  to  take  the 
splendid,  dignified,  old  major-domo,  who  showed  us 
about,  home  with  me;  but  I'm  sure  he'd  pine  away 
and  die  if  torn  from  his  beloved  Chateau. 

We  bought  quaint  painted  iron  brooches,  with 
Anne  of  Brittany's  crest  on  them,  in  the  town;  and 
then  we  drove  away  through  pretty,  undulating 
country,  which  must  be  lovely  in  summer,  to  Azay 
le-Rideau.  Francis  the  First  built  it;  and  he  cer 
tainly  had  as  good  taste  in  castles  as  in  ladies,  which 
is  saying  a  great  deal. 

This  is  a  fairy  house.  It  doesn't  look  as  if  it 
had  ever  been  built  in  the  ordinary  sense,  but  as  if 
somebody  had  dropped  a  huge,  glimmering  pearl 
down  on  the  green  meadow,  and  it  had  rolled  near 
enough  to  the  water  to  see  its  own  reflection.  Then 
the  same  somebody  had  carved  exquisite  designs  all 
over  the  pearl,  and  finally  hollowed  it  out  and  turned 
it  into  a  king's  house. 

As  usual,  we  came  to  it  across  a  bridge,  not  span 
ning  the  Loire  this  time,  but  a  branch  of  the  river 
Indre;  and  it's  in  the  Indre  that  the  pearly  Chateau 
bathes  its  pearly  feet.  Almost  I  wished  that  I  hadn't 
gone  inside  the  pearl.  Not  that  the  inside  was 
worthless;  there  was  a  mantel  or  two,  and  a  great 
§how  staircase,  with  a  carved,  vaulted  roof;  but  it 


The  Lightning  Conductor  117 

was  an  anti-climax  after  the  outside  and  after  Lan- 
geais.  When  we  came  out  from  "viewing  the  in 
terior,"  as  the  guide-books  say,  I  walked  all  round 
the  Chateau  again,  looking  up  at  the  carved  chimneys 
and  the  sculptured  windows,  the  charming  turrets, 
and  the  sloping  roof  of  blue  grey  slate;  all  so  light 
and  elegant,  seeming  to  say,  "Come  and  live  here. 
You  will  be  happy."  Oh,  they  have  some  lovely 
things  in  Europe,  that  we  can  never  have  in  our  new 
country!  We've  a  good  excuse  for  wanting  to  come 
over  here.  But  it's  so  good  to  feel  that  the  things 
are  for  us,  and  for  everybody — not  just  for  England, 
or  France,  or  Italy,  as  the  case  may  be. 

To-morrow  we  are  going  to  try  and  see  three 
chateaux — Usse*,  and  Luynes,  and  Chinon.  We'll 
come  back  to  Tours  and  our  dear  Hotel  de  I'Univers; 
but  the  day  after — good-bye  to  both,  and  how-do- 
you-do  Loches  !  I'll  leave  this  open,  and  put  in  a 
postscript.  I  haven't  given  you  a  real,  characteristic 
postscript  for  a  long  time. 

Evening;  and  LOCHES. 

"Here  I  am  again!"  as  Jack-in-the-Box  says. 
And  we've  done  all  the  things  I  said  we  were  going 
to.  But  I'm  too  full  of  Loches  and  too  excited  about 
Loches  to  tell  you  anything  of  yesterday's  three 
castles,  except  to  fling  them  an  adjective  or  two,  and 
pass  on.  Let  me  see,  what  adjective,  since  I've  con 
fined  myself  to  one,  shall  I  give  Usse*?  "Splendid," 
I  think.  "  Interesting  "  is  all  I  can  afford  for  Luynes, 
though  it  deserves  a  lot  more,  if  only  for  its  history. 
And  well — "magnificent"  must  do  for  Chinon.  Per- 


u8  The  Lightning  Conductor 

haps  it  has  the  most  beautiful  view  of  all.  But 
Loches — Loches  !  I  had  forgotten  its  existence  till 
I  dug  it  up  for  myself  in  Quentin  Durward,  and  the 
guide-books,  to  which  Aunt  Mary  is  so  faithful,  don't 
do  it  any  sort  of  justice.  They  don't  tell  you  to  go 
to  see  it,  whatever  else  you  must  make  up  your  mind 
to  miss.  Why,  Aunt  M.'s  particular  pet  devoted 
almost  as  much  space  to  the  queer  little  rock  village 
of  Rochecorbon,  whose  lighted  windows  glared  at 
us  like  cat's  eyes  away  high  up  above  the  road,  one 
dark  evening  (when  we'd  been  belated  after  an  excur 
sion)  getting  back  to  Tours. 

Luckily  the  Lightning  Conductor  appreciated 
Loches  at  its  true  value,  and  told  me  it  was  well 
worth  making  a  short  detour — as  we  must — to  see. 
We  had  to  go  out  of  our  way  as  far  as  a  place  called 
Cormery,  but  that  was  nothing,  and  yesterday  mom- 
ing  early  we  started.  It  was  the  first  sparkling  blue- 
and-gold  day  we  have  had  for  a  while;  it  seemed  as 
if  it  must  have  come  across  to  us  from  Provence,  as 
a  sample,  to  show  what  we  might  expect  if  we  hurried 
on  there.  The  air  was  like  champagne — or  Vouvray 
— and  we  spun  along  at  our  very  best  on  the  smooth, 
wide  Route  Nationale,  our  faces  turned  towards 
Provence  as  a  graceful  compliment  for  the  gift  of  the 
weather. 

We  have  a  neat  little  trick  of  getting  to  places  just 
in  time  for  lunch,  and  we  managed  it  at  Loches,  as 
usual.  We'd  hardly  driven  into  the  town  before 
I  fell  in  love  with  its  quaintness;  but  I  didn't  fall 
in  love  with  the  hotel  until  I'd  been  surprised  with 
a  perfectly  delicious  d^euner.  Then  I  let  myself  go; 


The  Lightning  Conductor  119 

and  when  I'd  seen  how  pretty  the  old-fashioned  bed 
rooms  were,  I  begged  to  stay  all  night  instead  of 
going  on.  Brown  seems  to  regard  my  requests  as  if 
they  were  those  of  royalty — commands;  and  he  re 
arranged  our  programme  accordingly.  I'm  writing 
in  a  green-and-pink  damask  bedroom  now,  but  when 
I  shut  my  eyes  I  can  see  the  castle  and  the  dungeons 
and — Madame  Cesar.  Yes,  I  think  I  can  find  my 
way  back  for  your  benefit,  and  return  on  our  own 
tracks. 

First.,  like  a  promising  preface  to  the  ruined  strong 
hold  of  the  terrible  Louis,  we  went  through  a  massive 
gateway,  flanked  with  towers,  and  climbed  up  a 
winding  street  of  ancient,  but  not  decrepit  houses, 
to  come  cut  at  last  upon  a  plateau  with  the  gigantic 
walls  of  the  castle  on  our  left  When  I  remembered 
who  caused  those  outworks  and  walls  to  be  put  up, 
so  high  and  grim  and  strong,  and  why,  I  felt  a  little 
"creep"  run  up  my  spine  at  sight  of  the  enormous 
mass  of  stonework.  "Who  enters  here  leaves  hope 
behind"  might  have  been  written  over  the  gateway 
in  the  dreadful  days  when  Loches  was  in  its  wicked 
prime.  Those  walls  are  colossal,  like  perpendicular 
cliffs.  At  a  door  in  one  of  them  we  tinkled  a  bell, 
and  presently,  with  loud  unlocking  of  double  doors, 
quite  a  pretty  young  girl  appeared  and  invited  us  in. 
She  was  the  daughter  of  the  gardien,  she  told  us.  It 
was  almost  a  shock  to  see  something  so  fresh  and 
young  living  in  such  a  forbidding,  torture-haunted 
den  as  Louis'  Chateau  of  Loches.  She  was  like  one 
of  the  little  bright-coloured  winter  blossoms  springing 
out  from  a  cranny  of  the  grey  walls.  When  she  had 


120  The  Lightning  Conductor 

lighted  rather  a  smelly  lantern,  we  prepared  to  follow 
into  the  "fastnesses "  of  the  castle.  If  ever  that  good 
old  double-dyed  word  could  be  appropriate,  it  is  to 
Loches.  I  never  thoroughly  realised  before  the  awful 
might  of  kings  in  feudal  and  mediaeval  days.  To 
think  that  Louis  XI.  had  the  power  to  build  such 
a  place,  and  to  hustle  his  enemies  away  for  ever 
out  of  the  sunshine,  behind  those  tremendous  walls, 
and  bury  them  in  the  yard-square  cells  hollowed  in 
the  thickness  of  the  stone!  I  used  to  wish  I'd  lived 
in  those  stirring  times,  but  I  changed  my  mind  to-day 
— temporarily. 

In  the  middle  of  the  fortress  is  an  enormous 
square,  white  keep,  so  heavy,  solid,  and  imposing 
that  it  seems  more  like  the  slow  work  of  Nature  than 
of  man.  Down  steep,  winding  steps  in  a  tower,  we 
followed  our  guide  into  the  dungeons  where  that 
unspeakable  Louis  shut  up  the  people  he  was  afraid 
to  leave  in  the  world.  Waving  her  lantern  in  the 
dusk,  the  girl  showed  us  where  the  wretched  pris 
oners  had  tried  to  keep  themselves  from  madness 
by  painting  on  the  roof  and  walls.  In  one  cell  a 
bishop  had  cut  into  the  solid  wall  a  little  altar,  just 
where  a  slanting  ray  of  sunshine  stole  through  a 
grating  and  occasionally  laid  a  small  patch  of  light 
for  a  few  minutes,  only  to  snatch  it  away  again. 
Several  of  the  cells  were  just  black  holes  scooped 
out  of  the  rock,  and  there  it  seemed  to  have  been 
Louis'  delight  to  put  some  of  the  most  important 
prisoners — men  who  had  lived  like  princes,  and  had 
power  over  life  and  death  in  their  own  countries. 

Oh,  do  you  remember  wily  Cardinal  Balue?     I've 


The  Lightning  Conductor  121 

been  refreshing  my  memory  of  him  in  Quentin 
Durward,  hating  him  dreadfully;  but  I  did  have 
a  spasm  of  pity  when  I  saw  the  big,  well-like  place 
where  he  was  suspended  for  so  many  years,  like  an 
imprisoned  canary,  in  a  wooden  cage,  because  he 
betrayed  Louis'  secrets  to  the  Duke  of  Burgundy. 
Henry  James  says,  in  a  fascinating  Tauchnitz  vol 
ume  I  bought  in  Tours  (A  Little  Tour  in  France) ,  that 
Cardinal  Balue  "survived  much  longer  than  might 
have  been  expected  this  extraordinary  mixture  of 
seclusion  and  exposure."  Isn't  that  just  the  cun- 
ningest  way  of  expressing  it? 

Last  of  all  we  went  up  to  the  top  of  a  high  tower 
in  the  midst  of  the  Chateau,  and  there,  as  if  we'd 
been  on  the  mast-head  of  a  ship,  we  had  a  bird's-eye 
view  of  the  pretty  white  town,  with  the  Indre  mur 
muring  by  in  sedgy  meadows  outside.  There  were 
some  wonderful  old  cuttings  in  the  stone,  made  by 
the  soldiers  who  acted  as  sentinels  and  prisoners' 
guards;  and  Aunt  Mary  Kodaked  me  as  I  sat  study 
ing  them.  We  could  spy,  across  the  plateau  of  the 
castle,  the  tomb  of  Agnes  Sorel,  and  decided  to  go  to 
it;  but  we  left  the  poor  girl  till  so  late,  finally,  that 
we  could  only  see  her  glimmering  white  in  effigy  of 
marble,  with  a  sweetly  resigned  face,  modest,  folded 
hands,  and  a  dear  little  soft  sitting-down  lamb  to 
rest  her  pretty  feet  on.  She  had,  besides,  two  very 
pretty  young  angels  to  watch  over  her  and  wake  her 
up  when  it  should  be  time. 

I'm  sure  it  would  have  taken  at  least  three  such 
angels  to  wake  me  up,  until  I  had  " slept  out,"  after 
our  long  afternoon  in  the  castle,  and  later  in  the  town. 


122  The  Lightning  Conductor 

I  went  to  bed  early  and  slept  ten  hours.  We  hadn't 
to  start  immediately,  as  our  drive  for  the  day  wasn't 
long,  so  I  proposed  to  Aunt  Mary  that  we  should 
breakfast  in  our  rooms  and  then  go  out  for  a  morning 
walk.  The  breakfast  idea  appealed  to  her;  not  so 
the  walk,  and  accordingly  I  had  to  go  alone.  I  had 
no  plan  except  perhaps  to  buy  a  souvenir  or  two; 
but  in  the  crooked  street  leading  up  to  the  castle  I 
met  Brown.  He  was  reading  a  notice  on  the  great 
gateway,  directing  strangers  to  some  excavations 
lately  made.  He  took  off  his  cap  at  sight  of  me, 
and  I  asked  him  if  he  thought  the  excavations  would 
be  worth  seeing.  He  had  heard  that  they  were,  and 
I  said  that  I  should  be  glad  if  he  would  show  me 
how  to  go  to  the  place.  I  didn't  like  wandering 
about  by  myself.  Everything  is  so  horrid  that  one 
does  by  oneself  in  a  strange  country,  and  then  if 
Brown  isn't  useful  in  one  way  he  always  proves  to  be 
in  another.  So  he  obeyed,  of  course,  walking  not 
too  close,  as  if  to  let  me  see  that  he  recognised  the 
distance  between  us.  I've  often  noticed  him  do  that 
if  we  have  to  go  anywhere  together  on  foot,  and  I 
think  it's  rather  nice  of  him,  don't  you?  Just  a  little 
pathetic  too,  maybe.  Anyhow,  it  seems  that  way  to 
me,  for  he  really  ought  to  have  been  a  gentleman. 
It's  such  a  waste  of  good  material,  the  Lord  using 
him  up  for  a  chauffeur  when  any  common  stuff  would 
have  done  for  that. 

Well,  we  went  on  a  short  distance  until  we  saw  a 
tiny  cottage  in  a  wild-looking  garden  at  the  foot  of 
the  huge  fortress  walls.  We  rang  a  gate-bell,  when 
another  notice  told  us  we'd  got  to  the  right  place, 


The  Lightning  Conductor  123 

and  a  little,  smiling  woman  came  out  to  welcome  us. 
"Oh,  yes!"  said  she  volubly.  She  would  show  us 
the  excavations,  and  we  would  find  them  as  interest 
ing  as  anything  we  could  see  in  Loches.  Already  it 
was  easy  to  see  that  in  her,  at  least,  we  had  found 
something  interesting.  She  had  the  nicest,  brightest 
old  face,  and  she. poured  out  upon  us  a  kind  of  benign 
dew  of  conversation.  She  introduced  herself  as 
Madame  C£sar;  always  talking  and  explaining,  she 
lighted  a  candle,  led  us  to  the  mouth  of  an  egg- 
shaped  subterranean  path,  and  bowed  us  down.  She 
went,  too,  down  the  steep  steps,  telling  how  this 
passage  and  many  ramifications  of  it  had  been  dis 
covered  only  recently,  most  of  the  excavations  having 
been  the  work  of  her  husband.  It  was  supposed  that 
an  underground  gallery  led  a  long  way  from  Loches 
to  some  distant  spot,  so  that  people  could  come  and 
go  to  the  castle  unseen,  and  so  that  the  fortress  could 
secretly  receive  provisions  if  it  were  besieged.  All 
sorts  of  things  had  been  found  in  the  passages — 
rosaries,  and  old,  old  books,  and  coins,  and  queer 
playing-cards;  and  some  of  the  best  of  the  relics 
she  had  in  her  own  cottage.  We  stopped  to  see 
them  afterwards,  and  she  reeled  forth  yards  of  history 
in  the  most  fascinating  and  vivacious  manner,  accom 
panied  by  dramatic  gestures,  almost  worthy  of  Sara 
Bernhardt.  I  suppose  she  must  have  been  down  in 
the  excavations  oftener  than  she  could  remember,  but 
you  would  have  thought  it  was  perfectly  new  to  her, 
and  she  was  seeing  it  for  the  first  time.  She  gave  us 
a  rose  each  to  remember  her  by,  and  oh! — wasn't  it 
comic,  or  tragic?  which  you  will — she  quite  misunder- 


124  The  Lightning  Conductor 

stood  things,  and  suggested  that  I  should  put  Brown's 
rose  in  his  leathery  buttonhole.  He  and  I  both 
pretended  not  to  hear,  but  I  felt  embarrassed  for 
a  minute.  Nevertheless,  I  wouldn't  have  missed 
Madame  Ce"sar  and  her  excavations  for  a  good  deal. 

There,  dejeuner  is  ready,  and  you'll  be  glad,  maybe, 
dear,  faraway  Dad,  because  it  will  spare  you  further 
descriptions.  After  dejeuner  we  shall  proceed  to  be 
lightning-conducted  again,  and  I  shall  duly  collect  a 
few  more  adventures  to  recount.  Good-bye,  dear. 
How  I  wish  you  were  with  me  instead  of  Aunt  Mary] 

Your  everlasting 

MOLLY, 


JACK  WINSTON  TO  LORD  LANE 

BIARRITZ,  December  n. 

My  dear  Montie, 

I  have  let  you  rest  a  good  long  time  without 
a  letter  (not  that  I've  been  taking  a  rest  myself),  and 
now  I  should  think  you  are  opening  your  eyes  with 
astonishment  at  the  picture  on  my  paper  of  a  hotel 
at  beautiful,  blowy  Biarritz.  Thereby  hangs  a  tale 
of  adventure  and  misadventure. 

No  doubt  my  fair  employer  believes  me  at  this 
moment  to  be  consorting  with  couriers  in  the  ser 
vants  hall  (if  there  be  one)  of  her  hotel.  But,  as 
usual,  I  know  a  trick  worth  two  of  that;  and  having 
washed  his  hands  of  Brown  for  the  time  being,  your 
friend  Jack  sits  smoking  his  pipe  and  writing  to  you 
in  what  is  known  as  the  "monkey-house"  of  this 
hotel.  As  you  don't  know  Biarritz,  you'll  think  that 
in  exchanging  all  the  comforts  of  a  servants'  hall  for 
a  monkey-house  I  am  not  doing  myself  as  well  as 
I  might.  But  there  are  monkey-houses  and  monkey- 
houses.  This  one  is  a  delightful  glass  room  built 
on  to  the  front  of  the  hotel,  facing  a  garden  and 
tennis  courts,  commanding  a  glorious  view  of  the 
sea  and  also  of  every  creature,  human  and  inhuman, 
who  goes  by.  One  has  tea  in  the  monkey-house; 

125 


126  The  Lightning  Conductor 

one  writes  letters,  reads  novels,  smokes  or  gossips, 
according  to  sex  and  inclination;  one  can  also  be 
seen  at  one's  private  avocations  by  the  madding 
crowd  outside  the  glass  house,  hence  the  name. 

The  air  is  luminous  with  sunshine  and  pungent 
with  ozone.  Great  green  rollers  are  marching  in,  to 
break  in  thunder  on  the  beach,  and  fling  rainbow 
spouts  of  spray  over  tumbled  brown  rocks.  In  the 
distance  the  sea  has  all  the  colours  of  a  peacock's 
tail;  the  world  is  at  its  best,  and  I  ought  to  be 
rejoicing  in  its  hospitality;  but  I'm  not.  The  fact 
is,  I'm  upset  in  my  mind.  I'm  over  head  and  ears 
in  love,  and  as  there's  no  hope  of  scrambling  out 
again  (I'm  hanged  if  I  would,  even  if  I  could)  or  of 
getting  my  feet  on  solid  ground,  mere  beauty  of 
landscape  and  seascape  appear  slightly  irrelevant. 

I  wouldn't  bother  you  with  my  difficulties,  which, 
I  admit,  are  mostly  my  own  fault,  and  serve  me 
right  for  beginning  wrong,  but  you  asked  in  your 
letter  if  you  could  help  me  in  any  way;  and  it  does 
help  to  let  off  steam.  You  are  my  safety-valve,  old 
man. 

You  will  have  had  my  hasty  line  from  Angouleme 
(birthplace  of  witch-stories  and  of  Miss  Randolph's 
beloved  Francis  the  First)  telling  you  how  we  got  rid 
of  Eyelashes.  I  don't  think  we  shall  ever  encounter 
that  beautiful  young  vision  again,  and  I  sincerely 
hope  that  we  shall  be  spared  others  of  his  kind,  but 
one  never  knows  what  will  happen  with  an  American 
girl  at  the  helm.  I  told  you  also  of  our  doings 
among  the  chateaux.  Altogether,  that  was  an 
idyllic  time;  and  still,  though  I  have  been  grumbling 


The  Lightning  Conductor  127 

to  you  just  now,  when  I  can  shut  my  eyes  to  to-mor 
row,  I  haven't  much  fault  to  find  with  Fate.  You 
remember  that  weird  story  of  Hawthorne's,  about  the 
man  who  walked  out  of  his  own  house  one  morning, 
took  lodgings  in  a  neighbouring  street,  disguised 
himself,  and  watched  for  years  the  agony  of  his  wife, 
who  gave  him  up  for  dead?  At  last  the  desire  for 
home  came  over  him  again;  he  knocked  at  his  own 
door  and  went  in ;  there  the  story  ends. 

My  position  is  like  that  of  Hawthorne's  hero, 
without  the  tragedy.  When  shall  I  return  to  my 
own  home?  I  cannot  tell.  I  have  stepped  out  of 
my  own  sphere  into  another,  and  sometimes  I  have 
an  odd  sense  of  detachment,  as  if  I  were  floating 
in  a  void.  It  is  only  when  I  am  writing  to  you  or 
when  I  get  letters  from  the  world  I  have  left  that  I 
feel  the  link  which  unites  me  with  the  past.  Since 
I  left  Paris  I  have  had  only  four  letters  from  my 
world,  which  have  fallen  into  Brown's  world  like 
strange  reminders  of  another  existence.  I  have  had 
your  own  welcome  words,  and  a  letter  from  my 
mother  at  Cannes  (I  gave  her  my  address  at  Poitiers) 
telling  me  of  the  arrival  there  of  Jabez  Barrow  with 
his  "one  fair  daughter, "  and  urging  me  to  haste.  As 
if  I  should  rush  from  the  society  of  the  Goddess  in 
the  car  to  the  opulent  charms  (in  both  senses)  of 
Miss  Barrow!  It  appears  that  Jabez  the  Rich  does 
not  care  for  Cannes,  but  sighs  for  Italy,  and  that 
my  mother  has  promised  to  "personally  conduct" 
them  to  Rome.  She  wants  me  to  reach  Cannes 
before  they  leave,  or  if  that's  impossible,  to  abandon 
my  car  and  follow  by  rail  to  Rome,  lest  I  "miss  this 


128  The  Lightning  Conductor 

great  chance."  I  am  not  surprised  at  this  move. 
My  dear  mother,  when  the  travelling  fit  is  upon  her, 
is  nothing  if  not  erratic.  She  is  here  to-day,  and, 
having  seen  the  charms  of  another  place  advertised 
on  a  poster,  is  gone  to-morrow. 

On  getting  this  letter  a  happy  inspiration  carne^ 
into  my  mind.  It  had  been  the  more  or  less  vague 
intention  of  the  Goddess,  after  inspecting  the  castles 
of  the  Loire,  to  steer  for  Lyons,  arriving  at  Nice 
by  way  of  Grenoble.  I  offered  the  wily  suggestion, 
however,  that  it  would  make  a  more  varied  and  less 
"obvious"  tour  if  we  went  down  by  Bordeaux  and 
Biarritz,  snatched  a  glimpse  of  Spain,  travelled  along 
the  foot  of  the  Pyrenees  to  Marseilles,  and  so  reach 
the  Riviera  by  this  long  detour.  The  word  "  obvious  " 
is  a  black  beast  to  an  American  girl,  who  will  be 
original  or  nothing;  therefore  my  suggestion  is  in 
the  way  of  being  carried  out.  I've  written  to  my 
mother  that  I  can't  reach  Cannes  before  she  herself 
leaves  for  Rome;  thus  I  gain  time.  Still,  the  day 
of  disclosure  must  come  at  last,  and  the  longer  it's 
put  off  the  less  I  like  to  think  about  it. 

The  Goddess  (alias  Miss  Randolph)  is  staying  with 
her  aunt  at  the  "  Angle terre."  I  have  slunk  off  here, 
having  arranged  matters  with  the  hall  porter  at  the 
other  place,  who  will,  if  my  mistress  wants  me,  send 
a  messenger  post-haste.  Meanwhile  the  car  reposes 
in  a  garage,  where  it  is  kept  clean  and  in  running 
order  without  any  trouble  to  me.  As  I  have  grad 
ually  drifted  into  the  position  of  Miss  Randolph's 
courier  as  well  as  her  chauffeur,  I  can  plan  these 
things  as  I  like,  for  she  never  glances  at  her  bills, 


The  Lightning  Conductor  129 

which  I  settle,  giving  an  account  every  few  days. 
Do  you  recall  your  own  story  of  the  conscientious 
Yankee  from  the  country  who  failed  in  his  efforts 
to  eat  straight  through  the  menu  at  a  Paris  hotel 
dinner,  and  appealed  to  the  waiter  to  know  whether 
he  might  now  "skip  from  thar  to  thar"?  Well, 
I  would  skip  on  my  menu  from  Loches  to  Biarritz; 
but  you  were  to  have  been  my  companion  on  this 
trip,  and  you  cry  for  details. 

From  Loches  we  took  a  cross-country  route  which 
brought  us  out  in  the  main  road  from  Tours  to 
Bordeaux  at  Dange.  There  isn't  much  to  say  about 
that  run,  except  that  it  was  through  agreeable,  un 
dulating  country  with  wide  horizons,  like  a  thousand 
other  undulations  and  horizons  in  France.  At  La 
Haye-Descartes  we  struck  a  pretty  picture  when 
crossing  a  bridge  over  the  River  Creuse.  The  setting 
sun  had  performed  the  miracle  of  turning  the  water 
into  wine,  and,  chattering  and  laughing  as  if  that 
wine  had  gone  to  their  pretty  heads,  a  company  of 
girls  and  young  women,  all  on  their  knees,  cheerfully 
did  their  washing  in  the  stream.  It  was  one  of  those 
homely  scenes  that  one  is  constantly  coming  across 
in  this  "pleasant  land  of  France"  to  leave  a  picture 
in  one's  mind.  Miss  Randolph  would  have  me  stop 
the  car  on  the  bridge  to  watch  it. 

A  queer  thing  about  France,  by  the  way.  You 
and  I  have  both  been  entertained  right  royally  in 
jolly  old  chateaux  by  delightful  French  people  of  our 
own  class.  We  know  that  life  in  such  country  houses 
can  be  as  charming  as  it  is  in  England ;  yet  if  one  had 
never  seen  it  from  the  inside,  one  would  fancy  in 


130  The  Lightning  Conductor 

travelling  that  nothing  of  the  sort  existed.  Roughly, 
one  might  sum  the  difference  up  in  a  phrase  by 
saying  that  France  presents  a  peasant's  landscape, 
England  a  landlord's.  In  England  you  see  twenty 
good  country  houses  for  every  one  you  pass  in  France 
— excepting  only  the  district  of  the  Loire;  and 
outdoor  life  as  we  know  it,  on  the  road  and  on  the 
river,  doesn't  seem  to  exist  over  here.  Somehow 
I  was  never  so  much  struck  with  this  contrast  before, 
though  I  know  this  country  almost  as  well  as  I  know 
my  hat.  Think  of  the  English  roads  and  lanes,  of 
the  pretty  girls  and  decent  men  one  meets  on  horse 
back  or  in  smart  dogcarts,  the  dowagers  in  victorias, 
the  crowds  of  cyclists,  the  occasional  fine  motor-car, 
knickerbockered  men  walking  for  the  pleasure  of 
exercise!  Here,  though  one  knows  there  are  more 
motors  than  at  home,  one  rarely  comes  across  them 
out  of  towns;  and  as  for  ladies  and  gentlemen,  or, 
indeed,  any  sort  of  people  out  solely  for  enjoyment, 
they're  as  rare  as  black  opals.  I  look  in  vain  for 
pretty  field  paths  and  rural  lanes,  where  workmen 
and  their  sweethearts  wander  when  the  day  is  done. 
I  suppose  they  prefer  to  do  their  love-making  indoors 
or  in  front  of  a  cafe\  or  perhaps  they  sandwich  it  in 
with  their  long  hours  of  work,  and  that  is  the  reason 
why  the  whole  of  France  seems  so  much  more  cul 
tivated  than  country  England — the  reason  why 
every  acre  is  turned  to  account,  not  a  square  yard 
of  earth  left  untilled.  It's  only  the  magnificent  roads 
which  aren't  enough  appreciated,  apparently,  by  the 
"nobility  and  gentry,"  as  the  tradesmen's  circulars 
have  it.  And  what  roads  tho  Routes  Nationales  are 


The  Lightning  Conductor  131 

— born  for  motor-cars! — varying  a,  little  from  depart 
ment  to  department,  but  equally  good  almost  every 
where.  You  come  to  a  stone  marking  the  boundary 
of  a  department,  for  instance,  and  crossing  an 
imaginary  line,  find  yourself  on  a  different  kind  of 
surface,  each  department  being  allowed  to  make  it's 
road  after  the  manner  which  pleases  it  best — provided 
only  it  makes  it  well. 

The  Route  Nationale  from  Paris  to  Bayonne,  along 
part  of  which  we've  lately  travelled,  is  good  nearly 
all  the  way.  From  Dang£  to  Poitiers  is  a  splendid 
bit,  and  up  to  Poitiers  one  climbs  a  considerable  hill. 
It's  a  cheerful  town,  with  a  fine  cathedral,  and  lively 
streets  full  of  red-legged  soldiers,  rather  weedy  and 
shambling  fellows,  like  most  French  conscripts.  Be 
yond  Poitiers  the  road  is  one  long,  exhilarating  switch 
back — you  rush  down  one  hill,  climb  another,  swoop 
again  into  a  hollow,  and  so  on,  the  road  unrolling 
itself  like  a  great  white  tape.  You  try  to  drive 
faster  than  the  tape  unrolls,  but  somehow  you  can 
never  beat  it. 

That  we  were  getting  into  the  south  was  shown  by 
the  fact  that  the  road  was  bordered  by  endless  rows 
of  walnut  trees.  Under  a  tumbled  sky,  and  with  an 
occasional  spatter  of  rain,  we  passed  that  day  through 
avast  stretch  of  rolling,  cultivated  land,  with  obscure 
villages  at  long  intervals.  In  a  little  town  called 
Couhe*-Verac  we  lunched  rather  late.  The  regular 
dejeuner  was  over,  as  it  was  nearly  three  in  the  after 
noon;  but  in  ten  minutes  after  we  got  into  the  house 
we  sat  down  to  this  luncheon:  boiled  eggs,  roast 
veal,  bceuf  d  la  mode,  puree  of  potatoes,  pheasant,  a 


132  The  Lightning  Conductor 

delicious  pate,  grapes,  peaches,  pears,  sweet  biscuits, 
cream  cheese,  red  and  white  wine,  and  bread  ad 
libitum;  all  for  two  francs  fifty  per  head.  Think  of 
it!  This  was.  a  homely  village  inn,  with  no  pre 
tensions.  What  would  have  happened  if  we  had 
turned  up  unexpectedly  at  such  a  house  in  England? 
We  should  have  been  offered  cold  beef  and  pickles, 
with  the  alternative  of  ham  and  eggs,  or  possibly 
"chop  or  steak,  sir;  take  twenty  minutes."  Truly  in 
cooking  we  are  barbarians.  The  French  dine ;  we  feed. 
The  landlord  was  a  man  of  character.  He  had 
delightful  manners,  and  though  he  was  young  his 
hair  was  greyish,  and  cut  low  and  straight  across 
a  broad  forehead.  Through  gold-rimmed  glasses 
gleamed  the  blue  eyes  of  an  enthusiast.  He  went 
with  me  to  look  at  the  car,  and  explained  that  he 
was  an  inventor — that  he  had  designed  a  new  system 
of  marine  propulsion  more  powerful  than  the  screw. 
It  followed  the  action  of  a  man  in  swimming,  ' '  regular 
in  irregularity,"  and  standing  on  his  toes,  he  flung  out 
his  arms,  and  beat  them  rhythmically  in  the  air  to 
illustrate  his  theory.  It  was  hard,  he  confided  in  me, 
to  have  to  keep  an  inn  in  a  small  town,  when  he 
ought  to  be  in  Paris,  among  engineers,  perfecting  his 
invention.  Did  I,  by  any  chance,  know  of  a  capital 
ist  who  would  back  him?  I  sympathised  and  re 
gretted;  but  who  knows  if  he  has  not  got  hold  of  an 
idea?  At  Blois  they  have  a  statue  of  Denis  Papin, 
who,  the  French  say,  invented  the  steam  engine. 
Perhaps,  years  hence,  if  my  grandchildren  pass 
through  Couhe'-Verac,  they  may  see  a  statue  to  the 
blue-eyed  landlord  of  its  little  inn. 


The  Lightning  Conductor  133 

Beyond  Couhe'-Verac  we  had  our  first  dog  acci 
dent.  Dogs,  you  know,  are  as  great  a  nuisance  to 
automobiles  as  they  are  to  cycles,  and  they  charge  at 
one's  car  with  such  vehemence  that  their  impetus 
almost  carries  them  under  the  wheels.  Sometimes 
they  show  their  strength  by  galloping  alongside  the 
car  for  a  couple  of  hundred  yards,  barking  so  furiously 
the  while  that  their  bodies  are  contorted  by  the 
violence  of  the  effort.  I  was  driving  at  a  moderate 
pace  (something  under  thirty  miles  an  hour)  when  a 
beautiful  collie  which  had  been  standing  by  the  road 
side  walked  quietly  out  and  planted  himself  with  his 
back  to  me  in  front  of  the  car.  The  fact  was  that 
he  saw  his  master  coming  along  the  road,  and  had 
gone  forward  to  greet  him.  The  whole  thing  hap 
pened  in  an  instant,  so  that  I  had  no  time  to  stop. 
I  think  the  dog  must  have  been  deaf  not  to  hear  the 
noise  of  the  car.  I  shouted,  but  he  took  no  notice. 
To  swerve  violently  to  one  side  was  to  risk  upsetting 
the  car;  besides,  there  was  no  room  to  do  this  as 
another  vehicle  happened  to  be  passing.  If  there 
had  been  only  the  car  to  sacrifice,  I  would  have 
sacrificed  it  to  save  that  collie;  but  I  couldn't  sacri 
fice  Miss  Randolph.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but 
to  drive  over  the  dog.  With  a  sickening  wrench  of 
the  heart,  I  saw  the  nice  beast  disappear  under  the 
front  of  the  car.  Instantly  slowing  down,  I  looked 
behind  me  expecting  to  see  a  mangled  corpse.  But 
there  was  the  dog  rolling  over  and  over  on  the  road. 
Clearly  some  under  part  of  the  car  had  struck  him 
and  sent  him  spinning.  The  noise,  the  unexpected 
blow,  the  fierce,  hot  blast  of  the  poisonous  exhaust 


134  The  Lightning  Conductor 

pouring  into  his  face,  must  have  made  the  poor 
fellow  think  that  he  had  struck  a  travelling  earth 
quake.  But  happily  he  was  unhurt.  As  I  looked 
he  got  on  to  his  feet,  and  with  his  tail  between  his 
legs,  ran  to  his  master  for  consolation.  Our  last 
glimpse  showed  us  that  comedy  had  followed  tragedy, 
for  the  master  was  beating  the  dog  with  a  cane  for 
getting  in  our  way.  I  was  afraid  Miss  Randolph 
would  scream  or  faint,  but  she  did  neither,  only 
turned  white  as  marble,  and  never  looked  prettier  in 
her  life.  Aunt  Mary  yelled,  of  course,  but  more  in 
fear  for  ourselves  than  for  the  collie,  I  think.  She 
says  she  would  like  dogs  better  "if  their  bark  could 
be  extracted." 

Angouleme  is,  like  Poitiers,  a  town  set  upon  a  hill, 
a  quaint  old  town,  worth  seeing,  but  we  were  eager 
now  to  get  to  the  true  South,  and  merely  gave  our 
selves  time  to  lunch  (the  waiter  producing,  with  a 
flourish,  enticing  but  indigestible  pdtts  de  perdrix  aux 
trufies)  and  to  drive  slowly  along  some  of  the  famous 
terraced  boulevards  that  form  the  distinction  and  the 
charm  of  Angouleme.  Certainly  the  place  stands 
romantically  on  its  high  and  lonely  hill,  almost  sur 
rounded  by  the  clear  waters  of  the  Charante.  At 
Angouleme  we  saw,  I  may  say,  the  first  professional 
beggars  we  had  met  on  the  tour.  A  warm  sun  seems 
to  breed  beggars  as  it  breeds  mosquitoes,  or  is  it  that 
Southern  peoples  have  less  self-respect  than  the 
Northern  ? 

A  drawback  to  automobilism  in  France  is  the  fact 
that  many  of  the  great  direct  main  roads  are  pavf. 
I  believe  that  this  is  a  remnant  of  the  old  days  of 


The  Lightning  Conductor  135 

road-making,  when  these  heavy  cobbles  formed  the 
one  surface  that  would  stand  artillery.  For  ordinary 
traffic  the  pave  roads  are  impossible,  and  their  exist 
ence  must  be  a  drawback  to  trade  and  intercourse. 
In  France  they  sell  special  bicycling  maps  showing 
with  dotted  lines  all  the  pave  roads,  and  these  I  have 
carefully  studied,  as  it  is  worth  making  any  detour  to 
avoid  the  awful  jolting  of  'the  pavt.  But  somehow, 
bewteen  Angouleme  and  Bordeaux,  I  took  a  wrong 
turning,  and  suddenly  on  ahead  of  us  the  good  road 
ceased  abruptly  as  if  a  straight  line  had  been  ruled 
across  it,  and  the  detestable  pavt  began. 

"  Oh,  let's  try  it  as  an  experience,"  commanded  my 
Goddess.  "  I  hate  going  back,  and  perhaps  it  doesn't 
last  long."  I  trusted  to  this  hope,  for  I  knew  that  in 
many  places  the  pavt  is  being  dug  up,  here  and  there 
only  short  stretches  of  it  being  left,  and  I  gingerly 
drove  the  Napier  on  to  the  execrable  surface  of 
uneven  stones.  We  rattled  and  tossed,  and  steering 
became  a  matter  of  difficulty.  The  irritating  thing 
was  that  each  side  of  this  detestable  road  were  wide 
belts  of  inviting  grass,  but  with  malignant  ingenuity 
these  are  cut  up  at  frequent  intervals  by  oblique 
drainage  gutters,  which  forbid  the  passage  of  any 
thing  wider  than  a  bicycle.  For  bicycles  there  are 
indeed  special  tracks  kept  in  order  by  the  Touring 
Club  de  France,  but  all  four-wheeled  vehicles  must 
jolt  and  bump  along  the  rough,  uneven  stones.  By 
the  time  we  reached  the  first  cross-road  Aunt  Mary 
begged  for  mercy,  and  I  was  glad  to  have  the  order 
to  get  off  the  pav&  at  any  cost.  Soundly  as  the 
Napier  is  built,  it  was  a  tremendous  and  unfair  strain 


136  The  Lightning  Conductor 

upon  springs  and  tyres,  and  all  the  while  I  was 
dreading  that  something  would  go.  Threading  our 
way  through  endless  vineyards  by  a  labyrinth  of 
by-ways,  we  ran  through  Barbezieux  and  Libourne, 
and  as  day  was  falling  crossed  the  noble  bridge  over 
the  Garonne  into  bustling  Bordeaux. 

Next  day  we  took  a  run  on  the  car  along  the  Quai 
des  Chartrons  and  through  some  of  the  chief  streets 
and  squares  of  Bordeaux,  just  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the 
handsome  town,  at  which  Miss  Randolph  turned  up 
her  pretty  nose  because  it  was  "  new  and  prosperous  "; 
then,  guided  by  a  porter  from  the  hotel  who  went 
before  us  on  his  bicycle,  we  threaded  the  city  on  our 
way  out  to  Arcachon.  There  was  some  unavoidable 
pavt  and  many  odious  tramlines;  but  at  last  our 
guide  left  us  on  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  and  we 
sped  on  to  a  curious  little  toy  suburb  called  St. 
Martin,  studded  with  neat,  one-storied,  red-roofed 
cottages,  like  houses  in  a  child's  box  of  bricks,  and 
all  with  romantic  names,  such  as  Belle  Ide'e,  Mon 
Repos,  Augustine,  Mon  Coeur,  and  so  on.  The  whole 
place  seemed  like  an  assemblage  of  dove  cotes  spe 
cially  planned  for  honeymoon  couples,  and  gave 
the  oddest  effect  of  unreality.  Then  we  passed  into 
the  green  twilight  of  the  great  pine  forest  which 
extends  all  the  way  to  the  sea. 

A  romantically  beautiful  road  lay  before  us.  For 
more  than  thirty  miles  it  runs  straight  and  smooth 
through  high  aromatic  pines,  springing  from  a  carpet 
of  bracken.  Miss  Randolph,  I  must  tell  you,  has 
become  an  expert  driver,  and  at  sight  of  the  long, 
straight  road  said  she  would  take  the  wheel.  So  I 


The  Lightning  Conductor  137 

stopped  a  moment,  and  we  changed  places.  She  put 
the  car  at  its  highest  speed,  and  we  flew  along  the 
infinite  perspective  of  the  never-ending  avenue.  This 
vast  pine  forest  is  a  desert,  and  we  passed  only 
through  small  and  scattered  villages.  That  flight 
through  the  pines  forest  of  the  Landes  will  always 
be  to  me  an  ineffaceable  memory.  None  of  us 
spoke;  two  of  us  felt,  I  think,  that  we  were  close  to 
Nature's  heart.  The  heady,  balsamic  odour  of  the 
pines  exhilarated  us,  and  the  wind,  playing  melan 
choly  music  on  the  Eolian  harps  of  their  branches, 
seemed  like  a  deep  accompaniment  to  the  humming 
throb  of  the  tireless  motor.  As  often  as  I  dared  I 
stole  a  look  sideways  at  Miss  Randolph's  profile. 
She  sat  erect,  her  little  gauntletted  hands  resting 
light  as  thistledown  upon  the  wheel,  but  her  fingers 
and  her  wrist  nervous  and  alert  as  a  jockey  riding  a 
thoroughbred,  her  eyes  intent  on  the  long,  straight 
road  before  her,  and  a  look  almost  of  rapture  upon 
her  face. 

We  had  raced  silently  through  the  forest  for  nearly 
an  hour,  when,  mingling  with  the  balsam  of  the  pines 
there  came  a  pungent  odour  of  ozone  floating  from 
open  blue  spaces  beyond  the  sombre  girdle  of  the 
pines.  Miss  Randolph  threw  at  me  a  questioning 
glance.  "It  must  be  the  sea,"  I  answered,  and  in  a 
few  moments  more,  after  passing  through  the  ancient 
town  of  La  Teste,  we  came  out  upon  the  edge  of  a 
vast  lagoon,  semicircular,  the  distant  shores  almost 
lost  in  an  indistinct  blue  haze.  "  The  Bassin  d'Arca- 
chon.  I  said"  Still,  no  town  was  visible,  only  the 
great  expanse  of  landlocked  sea,  its  shore  dotted 


138  The  Lightning  Conductor 

with  the  brown  wooden  cabins  of  the  oyster  fishers. 
It  seemed  like  coming  to  the  end  of  the  world. 

Slowing  down  a  little,  we  followed  a  raised  cause 
way  that  skirted  the  edge  of  the  Bassin,  and  pres 
ently  entered  upon  a  long,  straight  street — one  of 
the  oddest  streets  you  have  ever  seen,  one  whole 
side  of  it  (that  next  the  sea)  being  composed  of 
fantastic  bungalows  and  pleasure-houses  of  all 
imaginable  styles,  each  set  in  its  own  garden,  and 
the  whole  town  drowned  in  an  ocean  of  pines.  At 
the  outskirts  I  took  the  helm  again,  for  Miss  Ran 
dolph  scarcely  trusts  her  skill  in  traffic.  Not  that 
there  was  enough  to  be  alarming  in  Arcachon,  for 
the  place  seemed  under  a  spell  of  silence.  We  drove 
through  the  long  main  street,  past  an  imposing 
white  chateau  and  a  good  many  quite  charming 
houses,  until  we  came  to  a  hotel  which  the  Goddess 
fancied,  and  turned  into  a  garden.  I'd  never  been 
to  Arcachon  before,  and  supposed  from  the  guide 
books  that  this  was  the  place  for  "my  ladies"  (as  the 
couriers  say)  to  stop.  But  the  landlady  came  out, 
and  welcoming  us  with  one  breath,  recommended 
us  with  the  next  to  their  winter  house  in  the  forest. 
This  place,  looking  over  the  sea,  was  for  summer; 
the  other  was  now  more  agreeably  sheltered. 

The  "house  in  the  forest"  sounded  well  in  the  ears 
of  the  Goddess,  so  we  drove  off  to  find  it,  according 
to  the  directions  of  Madame  Feras.  The  Napier 
spun  us  up  a  steep,  winding  road  into  a  charming 
garden  surrounding  an  Alhambra  sort  of  place,  which 
Aunt  Mary  thought  "real  gay,"  being  bitterly  dis 
appointed  to  find  it  was  not  our  hotel,  but  Arcachon's 


The  Lightning  Conductor  139 

casino.  The  garden  proved  to  be,  however,  prac 
tically  the  beginning  of  the  Ville  d'Hiver,  a  quaint 
and  delightful  collection  of  villas  which  look  as  if 
they  had  been  scattered  like  ornate  seeds  among  the 
crowding  pine  of  the  Landes.  Of  these  seeds  the 
''Continental"  is  the  most  imposing,  and,  by-the- 
way,  this  climate  would  suit  you,  I  should  think;  it's 
an  extraordinary  combination  of  pine  and  sea  air, 
which  would  make  a  doctor's  fortune  as  a  tonic,  if  he 
could  cork  it  up  in  bottles. 

As  both  hotels  are  run  by  the  same  management, 
I  feared  gossip  if  I  went  down  to  the  "Grand"  and 
did  the  Doctor  Jekyll  act;  so  I  cautiously  remained 
Mr.  Hyde,  alias  Brown,  and  was  a  serf  among  other 
serfs.  After  dining  in  the  society 'of  maids  and  valets 
(whose  manners  and  conversation  would  have  given 
me  ripping  "copy"  if  I  were  a  journalist)  I  stole 
out  to  cleanse  my  mind  with  a  draught  of  pure  air 
and  a  look  at  the  sky.  A  cat  may  look  at  a  king, 
and  a  chauffeur  may  walk  on  a  terrace  built  for  his 
betters,  especially  if  the  betters  elect  to  shut  them 
selves  up  in  stuffy  drawing-rooms,  with  every  window 
anxiously  closed.  I  availed  myself  of  this  privilege, 
for  the  hotel  has  a  fine  terrace.  As  it  was  apparently 
empty,  I  sauntered  along  with  my  nose  in  the  air 
and  my  eyes  on  the  stars,  letting  my  footsteps  take 
care  of  themselves.  Suddenly  there  was  a  startled 
"Oh!"  in  a  familiar  voice,  and  I  became  aware  that 
I  had  collided  with  the  Goddess,  who  had  also  been 
thinking  of  the  stars  and  not  of  her  feet — which, 
by-the-by,  7  very  often  think  of,  as  they  are  the 
prettiest  I  ever  saw. 


140  The  Lightning  Conductor 

I  instantly  clapped  my  pipe  in  my  pocket,  where 
it  revenged  itself  on  me  for  neglecting  to  put  it  out 
by  burning  a  hole  through  to  my  skin.  I  apologised, 
and  would  have  taken  my  humble  chauffeury  self 
away,  but  my  mistress  detained  me.  "What  is  that 
wonderful,  faraway  sound,  Brown?"  she  asked  in  the 
delicious  way  she  has  of  expecting  me  to  know  every 
thing,  as  if  I  were  an  encyclopaedia  and  she'd  only 
to  turn  over  my  leaves  to  come  to  a  new  fact. 

I  stopped  breathing  to  listen;  I'd  do  it  perma 
nently  to  please  her.  And  there  was  a  sound — 
a  wonderful  sound.  If  I  hadn't  been  thinking  about 
her  and  the  stars,  I  should  have  been  conscious  of 
it  before.  Out  of  the  night-silence  the  sound  seemed 
to  grow,  and  yet  be  a  part  of  the  silence,  or  rather, 
to  intensify  the  near  silence  by  its  distant  booming, 
deep  and  ominous,  like  the  far-off  roaring  of  angry 
lions  never  pacified.  At  first  I  thought  it  must  be 
a  rush  of  wind  surging  through  the  mighty  pine 
forest;  but  not  a  dark  branch  moved  against  the 
spangled  embroidery  of  stars,  though  the  air  seemed 
faintly  to  vibrate  with  the  continuous,  solemn  note. 
Suddenly  the  meaning  of  the  sound  came  to  me ;  it 
was  the  majestic  music  of  the  Atlantic  surf  beating 
on  the  bar  ten  miles  away.  But  it  was  too  divine 
standing  there  in  the  night  with  Her  in  silence.  For 
a  moment  I  had  not  the  heart  to  speak  and  tell 
her  of  my  discovery.  A  faint  light  came  to  us  from 
the  stars  and  from  the  curtained  windows  of  the 
hotel.  I  could  just  see  her  face  and  her  lovely  great 
eyes  looking  up  questioningly  in  absolute  confidence 
at  me.  Jove,  what  wouldn't  I  have  given  just  then 


The  Lightning  Conductor  141 

to  be  Jack  Winston  and  not  Brown!  If  I  had  been, 
that  girl  wouldn't  have  got  back  into  the  house  with 
out  being  proposed  to,  and  having  another  "scalp" 
to  count,  as  they  say  American  beauties  do.  Not 
that  I  think  she'd  be  that  kind.  I  don't  know  how 
long  I  shouldn't  have  tried  to  make  the  magic  of  the 
moment  last,  if  Aunt  Mary  hadn't  bounced  out  of 
the  hotel  (done  up  in  a  shawl,  like  a  large  parcel) 
to  call  "  Molly!  Molly,  it's  time  you  came  in! " 

Molly  didn't  move,  but  Aunt  Mary  descended  the 
steps,  relentless  as  fate;  so  I  made  the  most  of  my 
information,  and  added  a  short  disquisition  on  Arca- 
chon  oysters  and  oyster  fishing,  for  the  sake  of 
retaining  the  Goddess's  society.  Unfortunately, 
however,  I  happened  to  remark  that  the  oyster 
women  wore  trousers  exactly  like  the  men,  and  this 
so  disgusted  Miss  Kedison  that  she  incontinently 
dragged  her  niece  from  the  contamination  of  the 
chauffeur's  presence. 

Next  day  was  Sunday.  Miss  Randolph  went  to 
the  English  church,  which  is  the  prettiest  I've  ever 
seen  in  France,  and  afterwards,  escorted  by  the  chap 
lain  with  whom  she'd  made  friends,  went  forth  to  see 
the  sights,  while  I  inquired  as  to  how  we  might 
best  proceed  upon  our  way.  While  Miss  Randolph 
and  Miss  Kedison  read  their  prayer-books,  I  studied 
that  useful  volume,  Les  Routes  de  France,  and  was 
duly  warned  against  the  impracticable  roads  of  the 
Landes.  The  one  thing  to  do,  according  to  the 
oracle,  was  to  return  to  Bordeaux  and  make  a  long 
detour  to  Bayonne  by  Mont  de  Marsan.  I  knew 
Miss  Randolph  would  dislike  this  plan,  for  she  hates 


142  The  Lightning  Conductor 

going  back,  and  so  do  I.  If  I  had  been  alone,  or 
with  you,  I  would  have  chanced  it  without  a 
moment's  hesitation,  making  straight  for  Bayonne 
by  way  of  the  forbidden  Landes,  with  all  its  pitfalls. 
But  I  funked  the  idea  of  perhaps  getting  Her  into 
a  mess — and  hearing  Aunt  Mary  say  "I  told  you 
so,"  as  she  invariably  does  when  there's  any  trouble. 

To  my  joy,  however,  plucky  Parson  Radcliff  had 
actually  advanced  the  idea  of  the  Landes,  during 
their  excursion,  and  the  Goddess  sent  for  me  on 
Sunday  evening,  full  of  enthusiasm.  Far  be  it  from 
me  to  dampen  the  ardour  of  youth;  and  early  on 
Monday  morning  we  started  to  follow  the  route 
La  Teste,  Sanguinet,  Parentis,  Yehoux,  Liposthey, 
which  names  reminded  Miss  Randolph  of  Gulliver's 
Travels. 

She  and  I  were  in  fine  spirits,  expecting  the  unex 
pected,  and  bracing  ourselves  to  encounter  diffi 
culties.  There  was  mystery  in  the  very  thought 
of  the  Landes — that  strange  waste  of  forest  and 
sand  so  little  known  outside  its  own  people.  I  felt 
it,  and  so  did  Miss  Randolph,  I  knew.  How  I  knew 
I  couldn't  explain  to  you;  but  some  electric  current 
usually  communicates  her  mood  to  me,  and  I  should 
almost  believe  from  various  signs  that  it  was  so  with 
her  in  regard  to  me,  if  I  weren't  a  mere  chauffeur  in 
the  lady's  pay. 

For  some  distance  the  going  was  good,  but  we 
were  only  reading  the  preface  to  the  true  Landes  as 
yet ;  and  when  we  reached  the  boundary  post  between 
the  department  of  the  Gironde  and  the  real  Landes, 
there  was  one  of  those  sudden,  complete  changes 


'DARK-FACED    PEASANTS    PERCHED    ON    STILTS.' 


The  Lightning  Conductor  143 

I've  mentioned  in  the  quality  of  the  road.  To 
drive  into  this  dim,  pine-clad  region  was  like  driv 
ing  back  into  the  years  a  century  or  two.  A  motor 
car  was  an  anachronism,  and  if  we  came  to  grief 
our  blood  was  upon  our  own  heads.  The  way  be 
came  grass-grown  and  rutty,  and  I  was  obliged  to 
drive  slowly.  Deeper  and  deeper  we  penetrated 
into  the  forest,  and  deeper  and  deeper  also  we 
sank  into  the  soft  earth.  Aunt  Mary  groaned  and 
prophesied  disaster  as  we  crawled  along  in  ruts  up 
to  our  axles;  but  I  think  Miss  Randolph  and  I 
would  have  perished  sooner  than  retreat.  I  trusted 
in  the  Napier  and  she  trusted  in  me.  In  one  place 
the  road  had  been  mended  with  a  covering  of  loose 
rocks  rather  than  stones;  we  panted  and  crunched 
our  way  over  them,  enormously  to  the  astonishment 
of  the  road-menders  and  one  or  two  dark-faced 
peasants,  perched  like  cranes  on  the  old-fashioned 
stilts  not  yet  utterly  abandoned  as  a  means  of 
navigating  this  sea  of  sand  and  pines.  Still,  on  we 
went,  the  engine  labouring  a  little,  like  an  over 
worked  heart;  but  it  was  a  loyal  heart,  and  the  tyres 
were  trumps. 

Miss  Randolph  said  that  if  she  were  a  tyre  and 
condemned  to  such  hard  labour,  she  would  burst  out 
of  sheer  spite.  I  think  Miss  Kedison  nearly  did  so 
as  it  was;  but  as  for  us  (I  suppose  you  can't  con 
ceive  the  satisfaction  to  a  poor  chauffeur  of  bracket 
ing  his  lady  and  himself  familiarly  as  " us"),  we  were 
intoxicated  by  the  heavy  balsam  of  the  turpentine, 
for  which  every  tree  we  passed  was  being  sliced.  On 
each  a  great  flake  of  the  trunk  had  been  struck  off 


144  The  Lightning  Conductor 

with  an  axe,  and  a  small  earthen  cup  affixed  to  catch 
the  resin,  which  is  the  heart's  blood  of  the  wounded 
tree.  There  was  something  Dante-esque  in  the  effect 
of  these  bleeding  wounds,  among  old,  scarcely  healed 
scars ;  and  that  effect  was  intensified  by  the  shadowy 
gloom  of  the  dense  forest,  and  the  never-ceasing 
sound  of  the  wind  among  the  high,  dark  branches, 
like  the  beating  of  surf  upon  an  unseen  shore. 

At  last,  when  the  feeling  was  strong  upon  us  that 
the  ocean  of  pines  had  engulphed  us,  like  Pharaoh's 
chariot  in  the  Red  Sea,  we  came  upon  a  rambling 
village,  called  Parentis.  As  if  to  announce  the 
arrival  of  the  first  motor  car  ever  seen  in  the  dim, 
forgotten  Landes,  the  off  front  tire  began  to  hiss. 
"I  told  you  so!"  said  Aunt  Mary.  My  eyes  and 
Miss  Randolph's  met,  and  we  both  burst  out  laughing. 
It  was  a  great  liberty  in  me,  and  though  I  couldn't 
have  helped  it  to  save  my  neck,  and  became  preter- 
naturally  solemn  afterwards  as  a  penance,  I  don't 
believe  that  the  lady  I  should  like  to  have  for  an 
aunt-in-law  will  ever  forgive  me.  She  ought,  how 
ever,  as  this  was  our  first  accident  with  the  Napier, 
while  with  poor  little  Miss  Randolph's  late  esteemed 
Dragon,  one  breakfasted,  lunched,  dined,  and  supped 
on  horrors.  Besides,  the  Dragon  invariably  schemed 
to  do  its  worst,  far  from  human  aid,  while  my  long- 
suffering  Napier  had  brought  us  to  the  very  court 
yard  of  the  village  inn  before  (as  Miss  Randolph 
expressed  it)  "sitting  down  to  rest." 

Inside  this  convenient  courtyard  I  set  about  doing 
the  repairs,  jacking  up  the  car,  taking  off  the  tyre, 
patching  it,  and  getting  it  on  again  in  twenty  minutes; 


The  Lightning  Conductor  145 

not  bad  for  an  amateur  mecanicien.  All  the  people 
of  the  inn  and  many  of  the  villagers  gathered  round 
to  see  the  great  sight,  and  Aunt  Mary  consoled  her 
self  by  showing  off  her  somewhat  eccentric  French 
to  the  landlady  and  her  family. 

There  were  three  generations  in  this  group,  I  took 
time  to  notice.  A  bowed  and  wrinkled  old  dame; 
her  daughter,  a  strong,  sad-faced  woman  in  black; 
and  a  golden-haired  granddaughter,  about  the  pret 
tiest  creature  I  ever  saw — bar  one.  And  it  was 
charming  to  see  my  Goddess  laying  herself  out  to 
be  nice  to  the  trio.  Her  personality  (which  is  the 
last  word  in  well-groomed,  high-strung,  vivacious 
American  girlhood)  contrasted  strikingly  with  these 
countrywomen,  who  had  perhaps  never  been  out 
side  their  own  forest.  I  couldn't  hear  what  she  was 
saying,  but  she  has  the  most  extraordinary  way  of 
always  hitting  on  the  right  thing  to  please  and 
interest  people,  without  departing  from  truth  or 
descending  to  flattery.  All  three  gazed  at  her  with 
delight  and  admiration,  the  little  beauty  of  the 
Landes  with  deepening  colour  and  wistful  eyes. 
No  Frenchwoman,  no  Englishwoman,  no  woman 
save  an  American  of  the  best  type,  could  have  ex 
actly  that  manner,  which  is  indescribable  to  one  . 
who  doesn't  know.  Strange  for  a  vision  like  that 
to  flash  into  these  quiet  lives,  then  flash  away,  never 
to  be  seen  again — only  remembered. 

It  was  too  early  for  luncheon,  but  as  we  had  had 
the  shelter  of  the  inn  I  wanted  to  order  something 
for  "the  good  of  the  house."  I  accordingly  asked 
for  Bordeaux  and  biscuits,  and  the  pretty  rose  of  a 


146  The  Lightning  Conductor 

granddaughter  brought  a  bottle  of — what  do  you 
think?  Pontet  Canet!  It  was  nectar,  and  cost — 
three  francs  a  bottle  ! 

When  we  drove  away  Miss  Randolph  was  reflec 
tive.  I  would  have  liked  to  offer  a  penny  for  her 
thoughts,  but  that  sort  of  indulgence  is  not  in  the 
sphere  of  a  chauffeur.  Presently  she  broke  out,  how 
ever.  ' '  Did  you  ever  see  anything  so  lovely  as  that 
girl?"  she  exclaimed.  "She's  all  white  and  gold 
and  rose.  Her  presence  in  that  sombre  place  re 
minds  me  of  a  shaft  of  warm,  golden  light  breaking 
through  the  dark  canopy  of  pines.  She's  like  a 
maiden  in  Hans  Christian  Andersen.  And  her 
name's  Angele.  Isn't  that  perfect?  It  seems  cruel 
that  such  a  creature,  who  would  make  a  sensation 
in  Paris  or  London  or  New  York,  must  bloom  and 
ripen  and  wither  at  last,  unknown,  in  that  wilderness. 
Oh,  how  I  should  love  to  snatch  her  away?  " 

"What  would  you  do  with  her,  miss,  if  you  could?  " 
I  ventured  to  ask,  at  my  humblest — which  in  Aunt 
Mary's  eyes,  is  my  best.  "Would  you  take  her  for 
your  maidf  " 

' '  A  maid?' '  echoed  my  Goddess  scornfully.  ' '  Why, 
if  I  meant  such  a  crime  as  that,  I  should  expect  white 
bears  to  come  out  of  these  woods  and  devour  me. 
No;  I  would  give  her  pretty  dresses,  and  arrange  a 
good  marriage  for  her." 

"Is  that  what  young  girls  in  America  like,  miss," 
I  meekly  inquired,  "to  have  marriages  arranged  for 
them?  " 

"No;  they  hate  it,  and  go  away  from  America  to 
show  that  they  hate  it — sometimes;  but  this  would 


The  Lightning  Conductor  147 

be  different,"  said  she.     And  I  wondered  if  she  had 
accidentally  betrayed  anything. 

At  Liposthey  we  struck  the  direct  road,  with 
good  surface,  from  Bordeaux  to  Bayonne.  Thus  on 
through  Labouheyre  to  Castets,  still  walled  in  with 
dark,  balsamic  forest,  where  we  lunched.  Just  be 
yond,  however,  we  found  that  we  were  bidding  the 
pines  farewell,  and  we  were  regretting  them  despite 
the  beauty  of  the  road — increasing  every  moment — 
when  suddenly  we  had  a  great  surprise.  At  what 
precise  point  it  came  I  don't  quite  know,  for  I  was 
snatched  up  out  of  the  dull  "  flatland  "  of  facts.  Miss 
Randolph  was  driving,  and  I  was  glancing  interestedly 
about,  as  an  intelligent  young  man  of  the  working- 
class  may,  when  away  to  the  left  I  saw  up  in  the 
skies  a  long  chain  of  blue,  serrated  mountains  look 
ing  far  too  high  to  belong  to  this  world.  I  started 
on  my  seat;  then  Miss  Randolph  saw  what  I  saw. 
"Oh — h!"  she  breathed,  with  a  responsive  sigh  of 
appreciation.  Not  an  adjective;  not  a  word.  I 
blessed  her  for  that.  Unfortunately,  Aunt  Mary 
seized  this  moment  to  awake,  and  she  did  not  spare 
us  fireworks.  She  never  does.  She  is  one  of  those 
women  who  insist  upon  your  knowing  that  they  have 
a  soul  for  beauty.  But  she  went  to  sleep  again  when 
she  had  used  up  all  her  rockets,  and  left  the  Goddess 
and  me  alone  with  the  Pyrenees.  Much  nearer 
Bayonne  we  had  another  surprise — a  notice,  in 
English,  by  the  roadside:  "To  the  Guards'  Ceme 
tery."  An  odd  sign  to  come  across  in  France,  n'est 
ce  pas,  mon  brave f  And  just  as  I  was  calling  up  the 
past,  Miss  Randolph  exclaimed:  "I  wonder  if  your 


148  The  Lightning  Conductor 

Napier  is  any  relation  to  that  Napier?  "  which  shows 
that  she  has  the  Peninsular  Campaign  at  her  finger- 
ends;  or  else  Aunt  Mary  has  been  cramming  her  out 
of  a  guide-book. 

It  was  not  late  in  the  afternoon  when  we  crossed 
the  bridge  over  the  Adour  (she  says  the  proverb, 
"  Don't  cross  your  bridges  till  you  get  to  them,"  can't 
apply  to  France,  as  you're  always  getting  to  them), 
but  already  the  sky  was  burnished  with  sunset;  and 
if  there's  anything  finer  than  a  grand  and  ancient 
fortified  gateway  turned  to  copper  by  the  sun,  I 
don't  know  it.  I  advised  Miss  Randolph  to  come 
back  one  day  from  Biarritz,  if  we  stayed  long  enough, 
to  see  the  exquisite  old  glass  window  for  which  the 
Bayonne  cathedral  is  famous;  but  it  was  too  late 
to  pause  for  such  details  as  windows  then,  so  we 
flew  on  along  the  switchback  road  over  the  remaining 
five  miles  to  Biarritz.  Here,  in  this  agreeable  town, 
we  play  about  till  I  have  orders  from  headquarters 
to  proceed.  Our  programme  is  now  to  go  straight 
along  the  Pyrenees  to  Marseilles,  and  so  to  Nice. 
Ah,  if  only  I  can  get  Her  to  go  on  to  Italy!  You 
had  better  address  me  next  at  the  Riviera  Palace, 
Cimiez.  We  are  to  pause  at  Pau,  call  at  Carcas 
sonne,  and  honour  other  places  en  route  to  the  Riviera, 
so  there  ought  to  be  ample  time  for  this  long  screed 
to  reach  you  and  for  you  to  send  reproach  or  praise 
to  Nice.  Tell  me  about  yourself;  how  you  are: 
what  you  read;  what  girl  you  love. 

Your  sincere,  but  somewhat  selfish  friend, 

JACK  WINSTON. 


MOLLY  RANDOLPH  TO  HER  FATHER 

HOTEL  GASSION,    PAU, 

December   14. 

Dear  Universal  Provider  of  Love  and  Cheques, 

Thank  you  a  thousand  times  for  both,  which 
have  just  been  forwarded  along  the  route  of  this 
"wild-goose  chase,"  as  you  call  it.  Well,  if  it  is  one, 
I  don't  know  who  the  goose  is,  unless  Aunt  Mary. 
She  is  rather  like  that  sometimes,  poor  dear;  but  we 
get  on  splendidly.  Oh,  I  would  get  on  splendidly 
with  five  Aunt  Marys  (which  Heaven  forbid!),  for 
I'm  so  happy,  Dad!  I'm  having  such  a  good  time — 
the  time  of  my  life,  or  it  would  be  if  you  were  in  it. 

If  you  ever  lose  all  your  money  and  come  a  nice, 
gentlemanly  cropper  in  the  street  called  Wall,  we 
might  come  to  Biarritz  to  live,  just  you  and  I.  We 
would  have  fun!  And  we  could  stop  in  our  pretty 
little  cheap  villa  all  the  year  round,  for  one  season 
only  waits  politely  till  another  is  out  to  step  in; 
it's  always  gay  and  fashionable,  and  yet  you  needn't 
be  either  unless  you  like.  And  the  sea  and  sky 
have  more  gorgeous  colour  in  them  than  any  other 
sea  and  sky,  and  the  air  has  more  ozone;  and  the 
brown  rocks  that  go  running  a  hippopotamus  race 
out  into  the  beryl-green  water  are  queerer  and  finer 

149 


150  The  Lightning  Conductor 

than  any  other  rocks.  So  you  see  everything  is 
superlative,  even  the  hotels,  and  as  for  a  certain 
Confectioner;  but  he,  or  rather  she,  deserves  a 
capital.  There  are  drives  and  walks,  and  curio- 
shops  where  I  spent  my  little  all;  and  there's  fox 
hunting,  which  would  be  nice  if  it  weren't  for  the 
poor  tame  fox;  and  golf,  and  petits  cheveaux  at  the 
casino,  where  Aunt  Mary  gambled  before  she  knew 
what  she  was  doing,  and  kept  on  a  long  time  after 
she  did;  and  mysterious  Basque  persons  with  an 
cestors  and  costumes  more  wonderful  than  anybody 
else's,  who  dance  strange  dances  in  the  streets  for 
money,  and  play  a  game  called  La  Pelotte,  which 
is  great  sport  to  watch.  And  you  walk  by  the  sea, 
with  its  real  waves,  like  ours  at  home,  not  little 
tuppenny-ha'penny  ones  like  those  I  saw  in  the 
English  Channel;  and  you  look  across  an  opal  bay 
through  a  creamy  haze  to  a  mystic  land  made 
entirely  of  tumbled  blue  mountains.  And  then,  one 
of  the  best  things  about  Biarritz  is  that  you're  next 
door  to  Spain.  Ah,  that  door  of  Spain!  I've 
knocked  and  been  in  through  it,  but  just  across  the 
threshold.  The  way  of  it  was  like  this — 

I'd  been  up  early  and  out  to  the  golf  course  for 
a  lesson  from  the  professional;  when  I  came  home 
a  little  before  eleven  Brown  was  waiting.  He  wanted 
to  know  if  I  wouldn't  care  to  have  a  peep  at  Spain, 
and  said  that  we  could  easily  go  there  and  back 
by  dinner-time.  Aunt  Mary  and  I  were  ready  in  a 
"jiffy,"  so  was  the  car,  and  we  were  buzzing  away 
along  a  beautiful  road  (though  a  little  "  accident Je ," 
as  the  French  say)  near  the  ocean.  There  were  the 


The  Lightning  Conductor 

most  lovely  lights  I  ever  saw  on  land  or  sea,  over 
the  mountains  and  the  great,  unquiet  Atlantic;  and 
St.  Jean  de  Luz,  which  we  came  to  in  no  time,  as 
it  seemed,  was  another  charming  little  watering- 
place  for  us  to  come  and  live  if  you  get  poor.  A 
good  many  English  people  do  live  there  all  the  year 
round,  and  whom  do  you  think  is  one  of  them? 
George  Gissing.  You  know  how  I  made  you  read 
his  books,  and  you  said  they  seemed  so  real  that 
you  felt  you  had  got  into  the  people's  houses  by 
mistake,  and  ought  to  say  "Excuse  me"?  Well,  he 
has  come  to  live  in  St.  Jean  de  Luz,  the  all-knowing 
Brown  tells  me.  His  master  admires  Mr.  Gissing 
very  much,  so  the  Honourable  John  must  be  a  nice 
and  clever  man. 

As  for  history,  Brown  is  an  inexhaustible  mine. 
I  simply  "put  in  my  thumb  and  pull  out  a  plum." 
But  I  forgot — there  aren't  usually  plums  in  mines, 
are  there,  except  in  the  prospectuses?  Anyhow,  it 
was  Brown  who  made  me  realise  what  tremendously 
interesting  things  frontiers  are.  That  imaginary  line, 
and  then — people,  language,  costumes,  and  customs 
changing  as  if  a  fairy  had  waved  a  wand.  The 
frontier  between  France  and  Spain  is  a  great  wide 
river — on  purpose  to  give  us  another  bridge.  Doesn't 
the  name,  "Bidassoa, "  suggest  a  broad,  flowing  cur 
rent  running  swiftly  to  the  sea? 

This  time  we  would  have  none  of  the  bridge.  It 
was  too  much  bother  paying  duty  on  the  car,  and 
having  a  lot  of  red  tape  about  getting  it  back  again 
in  an  hour  or  two;  so  we  left  Balzac,  as  I  have 
named  it,  at  the  last  French  town  and  rowed  across, 


152  The  Lightning  Conductor 

on  past  the  first  Spanish  town,  Iran,  to  a  much  older, 
more  picturesque  one — Fuenterrabia.  A  particularly 
handsome  boatman  wanted  to  row  us,  but  Brown 
would  do  it  himself,  either  to  show  how  well  he  can 
manage  the  oars,  or  else  because  the  boatman  had 
abnormally  long  eyelashes,  and  Brown  is  rather  sick 
of  eyelashes. 

Even  crossing  the  river  and  going  down  towards 
the  mouth  of  the  stream  (with  a  huge,  old  ruined 
castle  towering  up  to  mark  Fuenterrabia)  was  quite 
thrilling,  because  of  the  things  in  history  that  have 
happened  all  around.  The  estuary  runs  down  to  the 
sea  between  mountains  of  wild  and  awesome  shapes. 
One  of  them  is  named  after  Wellington,  because  it 
is  supposed  to  look  like  his  profile  lying  down,  and 
the  other  mountains  had  a  chance  to  see  his  real 
profile  many  times,  though  I'll  be  bound  his  enemies 
never  saw  his  back.  He  fought  among  them — both 
mountains  and  enemies,  and  the  latter  were  some 
of  Napoleon's  smartest  marshals.  He  took  a  whole 
army  across  the  ford  in  the  Bidassoa,  attacked  Soult, 
and  chased  him  all  the  way  up  the  mountains  to 
the  very  summit  of  La  Rhune,  a  great  conical  peak 
high  up  in  the  sky.  Another  thing  was  the  Isle 
des  Faisans,  right  in  the  middle  of  the  river,  where 
Philippe  and  Louis  the  Fourteenth  fixed  every 
thing  up  about  Louis'  Spanish  bride.  It's  the 
smallest  island  you  ever  saw;  you  wouldn't  think 
there  would  be  room  for  a  whole  King  of  Spain  and 
a  King  of  France  to  stand  on  it  at  the  same  time, 
much  less  sign  contracts. 

When  our  boat  touched  Spanish  soil  on  the  beach 


The  Lightning  Conductor  153 

below  Fuenterrabia,  two  rather  ferocious-looking 
Spaniards  in  uncomfortable  uniforms  were  waiting 
for  us.  They  had  the  air  of  demanding  "your  money 
or  your  life";  but  after  all  it  was  only  the  extra 
ordinarily  high,  xigly  collars  of  their  overcoats  which 
gave  them  such  a  formidable  appearance.  They 
were  custom-house  officers  guarding  the  coast,  though 
how  they  see  over  those  collars  to  find  out  what's 
going  on  under  their  noses  I  don't  know.  Brown 
says  that  soldiers  at  Madrid  have  to  dress  like  that 
in  winter  to  protect  themselves  from  the  terrible 
icy  winds,  and  as  Madrid  sets  the  fashion  for  every 
thing  in  Spain,  the  provincial  soldiers  have  to  choke 
themselves  in  the  same  way. 

•  It  did  seem  to  me  that  the  very  air  of  Spain  was 
different  from  across  the  river  in  France.  It  was 
richer  and  heavier,  like  incense.  It  is  nice  to  have 
an  imagination,  isn't  it,  instead  of  having  to  potter 
about  leading  facts  by  a  string,  as  if  they  were  dogs  ? 
Well,  anyway,  I  am  sure  people  have  bigger  and 
blacker  eyes  in  Spain.  Just  walking  up  from  the 
beach  to  the  strange  old  town,  I  saw  two  or  three 
peasant  women  and  children  with  wonderful  eyes, 
like  black  velvet  with  stars  shining  through — eyes 
that  princesses  would  give  fortunes  for. 

I  couldn't  help  humming  "In  Old  Madrid"  under 
my  breath,  and  I  fancied  that  the  salt-smelling 
breeze  brought  the  snapping  of  castanets.  The  sun 
was  hot ;  but  coolness,  and  rich,  tawny  shadows 
swallowed  us  up  in  a  silent  street,  crowded  with 
fantastic,  beautifully  carved,  bright-coloured  houses, 
all  having  balconies,  each  one  more  overhanging 


154  The  Lightning  Conductor 

than  the  other.  Not  a  soul  was  to  be  seen;  out 
footsteps  rang  on  the  narrow  side- walk,  and  it 
seemed  rude  of  our  voices  when  we  talked  to  wake 
the  sleepy  silence  out  of  its  afternoon  nap.  But 
suddenly  a  handsome  young  man  appeared  from  a 
side  street,  and  stopping  in  the  middle  of  the  road, 
vigorously  tinkled  a  musical  bell.  Immediately  the 
street  became  alive.  Each  house  door  showed  a 
man;  women  hung  over  the  gaily-draped  balconies; 
children  ran  out  and  clustered  round  the  bell-ringer. 
He  began  to  speak  very  fast  in  guttural  Spanish, 
and  we  couldn't  understand  a  word  he  said,  though 
Brown  has  a  smattering  of  the  language — enough  to 
get  on  with  in  shops  and  hotels.  When  he  had 
finished  everyone  laughed.  All  up  and  down  the 
street  came  the  sound  of  laughter;  deep,  bass 
laughter  from  the  men;  contralto  laughter  from  the 
women.  The  handsome  bell-ringer  laughed  too,  and 
then  vanished  as  suddenly  as  he  had  come.  All  the 
life  of  the  quaint  street  seemed  to  fade  away  with 
him.  Slowly  the  people  took  themselves  indoors; 
the  balconies  were  empty;  the  street  silent  as  in  a 
city  of  the  dead.  It  was  like  something  on  the  stage ; 
but  I  suppose  it's  just  a  bit  of  everyday  life  in  Fuen- 
terrabia  and  old,  old  Spain. 

We  went  on  up  to  the  castle  we  had  seen  from  the 
beach,  and  I  turned  my  eyes  away  from  a  big,  ugly 
round  building,  like  a  country  panorama-place,  for 
that  was  the  bull  ring,  and  the  one  thing  that  makes 
Spain  hateful  to  me.  I  didn't  want  even  to  think  of 
it.  The  gateway  of  the  palace — for  it  had  been  a 
palace — was  splendid — an  arch  across  the  street.  But 


The  Lightning  Conductor  155 

on  the  other  side  I  burst  out  laughing  at  a  sign,  in 
what  was  meant  to  be  English,  advertising  the  castle 
for  sale.  Capitals  were  sprinkled  about  everywhere; 
the  painter  had  thought  they  would  look  pretty,  and 
evidently  it  was  held  out  as  a  lure  to  Britishers  and 
Americans  that  Charles  the  Fifth  had  built  it  and 
lived  in  it.  I  know  Mrs.  Washington  Potts  would 
love  to  buy  it,  and  then  go  home  and  mention  in  an 
absent-minded  manner  that  she'd  "acquired  a  royal 
palace  in  Spain  as  a  winter  residence."  Can't  you 
hear  her?  But  oh,  poor  palace!  It's  as  airy  a 
mansion  now  as  most  castles  in  Spain,  though  what's 
left  of  its  walls  is  about  fifteen  feet  thick.  Still,  the 
glorious  view  of  sea  and  mountains  from  the  roof 
would  be  worth  paying  for,  and  wouldn't  need 
thousands  of  dollars'  worth  of  restoration,  like  the 
house. 

While  we  lingered  in  Fuenterrabia  absorbing  the 
atmosphere  of  old  Spain,  the  time  was  inconsiderate 
enough  to  run  away  and  leave  us  with  only  a  twisted 
channel  among  sandbanks  to  remember  it  by.  So 
we  took  an  oddly  shaped  carriage  with  a  white 
tasselled  awning  on  it  and  drove  back  to  Hendaye 
and  our  motor-car.  But  the  day  was  a  great  success, 
and  I  congratulated  Brown,  which  Aunt  Mary  said 
it  was  silly  to  do,  as  it  is  his  business  to  think  of 
everything  for  us. 

Now,  as  you  see  by  the  date  of  my  letter,  we're  at 
Pau,  to  which  we  came  from  Biarritz  in  a  delicious 
morning's  run  through  a  pearl- coloured  landscape 
trimmed  with  blue  mountains.  As  we  got  into  the 
town  the  Lightning  Conductor,  who  was  driving, 


156  The  Lightning  Conductor 

whisked  us  through  a  few  streets,  swooped  round  a 
large  square,  and  suddenly  stopped  the  car  on  a 
broad  terrace  with  an  air  as  though  he  said,  "There! 
what  do  you  think  of  that  ?"  I  think  I  gasped.  I 
know  I  wanted  to  by  way  of  saluting  what  must  be 
one  of  the  most  wonderful  views  in  the  whole  world. 

We  had  stopped  on  a  terrace  not  the  least  like  a 
street.  At  one  end  was  an  old  grey  chateau;  then 
a  long  line  of  imposing  buildings,  almost  too  graceful 
to  be  hotels,  which  they  really  were ;  a  church  sending 
a  white,  soaring  spire  into  the  blue  sky;  an  open, 
shady  place,  with  a  statue  of  Henri  Quatre;  villas 
hotels,  hotels  villas  in  a  sparkling  line,  with  great 
trees  to  cut  it  and  throw  a  blue  haze  of  shadow. 
That  is  one  side  of  the  terrace.  The  other  is  an  iron 
railing,  a  sudden  drop  into  space,  and — the  view. 
Your  eyes  travel  across  a  park  where  even  in  this 
mid-winter  season  roses  are  blooming  and  date  palms 
are  flourishing.  Then  comes  a  hurrying  river,  giving 
life  and  music  to  the  landscape;  beyond  that  a  wide 
sweep  of  hills,  with  bunches  of  poplars,  and  valleys 
where  white  villages  lie  half  concealed;  and  further 
still,  leaping  into  the  sky,  the  immense  line  of  the 
Pyrenees,  looking  to-day  so  near  and  sharply  out 
lined  that  they  seemed  to  be  cut  out  of  cardboard. 
When  I  was  able  to  speak  I  told  Brown  that  the 
Very  first  thing  I  should  do  would  be  to  walk  to  those 
delectable  mountains.  "I  don't  think  you  could 
quite  manage  it,  miss,"  he  said,  with  his  quiet  smile, 
"for  they  are  nearly  forty  miles  away."  Then  we 
turned  round  and  drove  into  the  courtyard  of  the 
hotel,  which  faces  the  great  view. 


The  Lightning  Conductor  157 

It  looked  tremendously  swell,  and  Aunt  Mary  and 
I  tried  to  live  up  to  it  by  sweeping  haughtily  in  as  if 
we  hadn't  collected  any  of  the  historic  dust  of  France 
on  our  motoring  coats  and  hats.  Just  as  we  were 
acquitting  ourselves  quite  creditably  who  should  step 
out  from  a  group  of  the  very  people  we  were  hoping 
to  impress  with  our  superiority  but  Jimmy  Payne! 
Oh,  you  wicked  old  man,  I  believe  you  must  have 
wired  or  written  him  a  hint.  You  know  you  have  a 
weakness  for  Jimmy,  or  rather  for  his  family.  But  I 
can't  go  about  marrying  the  sons  of  all  the  pretty 
ladies  you  were  in  love  with  in  your  vanished  youth. 
Probably  there  were  dozens,  for  you're  as  soft-hearted 
as  you  are  hard-headed,  and  you  can't  deny  it. 

Still,  T  don't  mind  confessing  that  I  was  rather 
pleased  to  see  Jimmy,  not  a  bit  because  he  is  Jimmy, 
but  because  he  seemed  to  bring  a  breath  of  homey- 
ness  with  him,  and  it  is  nice  to  have  an  old  friend 
turn  up  in  a  "  far  countree  "  when  you've  got  dust  on 
your  hat  and  the  other  women  who  are  staring  at  you 
haven't.  If  only  the  friend  doesn't  proceed  to  bore 
you  by  insisting  on  being  something  more  than  a 
friend,  which  I  hope  Jimmy  is  by  this  time  tired  of 
doing,  I  think  I  shall  rather  enjoy  the  encounter 
than  otherwise.  As  for  anything  else,  it  doesn't 
appeal  to  me  that  he's  his  mother's  son,  or  that  he's 
clever  in  stocks,  or  that  he's  got  as  much  money 
as  you  have.  So  now  you  know,  and  I  hope  he 
does. 

Well,  we  talked  a  little,  and  then  I  found  that  Aunt 
Mary  was  chattering  like  mad  with  the  Garrisons 
(one  "talks"  oneself;  other  people  "chatter";  for- 


158  The  Lightning  Conductor 

eigners  "jabber";  so  we  were  all  glad  to  see  each 
other,  or  said  so,  which  comes  to  the  same  thing. 

''How's  your  automobile?"  was  almost  the  first 
thing  I  asked  Jimmy,  for  the  last  time  I'd  seen  him 
it  was  the  pride  of  his  heart.  "I  suppose,"  I  said, 
"that,  like  us,  you're  making  a  tour  around  Europe 
on  it?" 

I  thought  his  face  changed  a  little,  though  I  don't 
know  why  it  should.  " Oh,"  said  he,  "I've  lent  it  to 
my  friend  Lord  Lane;  charming  fellow  I  met  last 
year  in  Paris.  He'll  meet  me  with  it  a  little  later. 
Where  are  you  going  after  this?  " 

"  We're  working  slowly  on  to  the  Riviera,"  said  I. 

"Oh,  isn't  that  funny,"  said  Jimmy,  "that's  where 
Lord  Lane  and  I  are  going  to  meet!  At  Cannes,  or 
Nice,  or  Monte  Carlo;  it  isn't  quite  settled  yet  which. 
I  suppose  you're  going  to  all  of  them,  as  you're 
driving  about  on  a  car?  " 

I  said  that  we  expected  to,  and  pointed  through 
the  glass  door  at  my  automobile,  with  Brown  super 
intending  the  hotel  servants  who  were  lifting  down 
the  luggage.  He  looked  hard  at  the  car  and  the 
chauffeur,  as  if  he  envied  rne  both,  and  I  think  he 
had  something  more  to  say  which  he  considered 
important,  but  I  was  in  a  hurry  to  change  and  make 
myself  prettier — much  prettier — than  the  Garrison 
girls. 

By  the  way,  they — the  Garrisons — suggested  that 
we  should  sit  at  a  small  table  with  them,  where 
they've  already  given  a  place  to  Jimmy.  We 
accepted  the  invitation,  and  now  we've  just  dined 
together.  My  frock  was  a  dream;  it's  always  nice 


The  Lightning  Conductor  159 

to  come  to  the  sort  of  hotel  where  one  can  wear 
something  pretty,  as  here  and  at  Biarritz.  After 
wards  we  all  put  on  coats  and  cloaks  and  strolled 
in  the  moonlight  on  the  terrace.  Jimmy  tried  to  call 
up  from  the  "vasty  deep"  of  his  broken  (?)  heart  the 
spirit  of  the  Past,  with  a  capital  P,  but  I  would  force 
him  into  the  track  of  automobilism  instead.  I  don't 
believe  he  knows  a  bit  more  than  I  do  about  it,  if  as 
much,  now  that  I've  learned  such  a  lot  from  the 
Lightning  Conductor,  and  if  he  takes  to  boasting 
I'll  just  show  him. 

Now,  good-night,  my  dear  old  Dad.     I  shall  treat 
myself  to  a  "night-cap"   draught  of  mountain  air 
before  I  go  to  bed  on  my  balcony  facing  the  Pyrenees. 
Your 

MOLLY-WHO-LOVES-ONLY-YOU. 


FROM  JACK  WINSTON  TO  LORD  LANE 

PAU,  December  15. 

Dear  Safety  Valve, 

After  the  recent  budget  from  Biarritz  I  had 
no  intention  of  inflicting  another  upon  you — at  least, 
until  we  should  reach  Nice.  But — there's  as  much 
virtue  in  "but"  as  in  "if" — you  will  be  thinking  in 
Davos  that  it  never  rains  but  it  pours  letters;  I  am 
thinking  in  Pau  that  it  never  rains  but  it  pours  young 
men — Miss  Randolph's  young  men.  We've  got 
another  one  now,  in  his  way  as  objectionable  as 
the  first;  and  though  I  don't  regard  this  specimen 
as  an  active  menace  to  the  car,  nor  do  I  believe 
he  will  resort  to  ripping  up  the  tyres,  he  has  his  knife 
into  me. 

Well,  we  arrived  in  Pau,  which  I  know  of  old,  and 
in  which  I've  had  some  rather  jolly  times,  as  Miss 
Randolph  would  put  it.  Pau  is  the  sort  of  place 
where  you  meet  your  friends,  and  I  scented  danger, 
but  we  were  booked  for  only  two  days,  and  luck 
had  befriended  me  so  well  thus  far  that  I  trusted 
it  once  more.  I  came  to  a  hotel  at  some  distance 
from  the  Goddess's.  Between  two  evils  I  chose  the 
less,  and  put  my  name  down  as  "  J.  Winston,"  hoping 
that  if  anyone  knew  me  they  wouldn't  know  Miss 

160 


The  Lightning  Conductor  161 

Randolph,  or  vice  versd.  Besides,  I  took  counsel 
with  prudence,  engaged  a  private  sitting-room,  and 
ordered  my  meals  sent  up,  to  avoid  being  on  show 
in  the  salle  a  manger.  All  seemed  serene,  when 
suddenly  an  adverse  wind  began  to  blow  (as  usual) 
from  an  unexpected  quarter. 

Lured  by  fancied  security,  I  took  advantage  of 
that  idleness  for  which  Satan  is  popularly  supposed 
to  provide  mischief  to  put  in  a  little  private  fun  on 
my  own  account.  On  the  morning  after  our  arrival 
in  Pau,  Miss  Randolph  informed  me  that  the  car 
and  I  would  not  be  wanted,  as  she  had  met  some 
American  friends  and  would  be  at  their  disposal 
during  the  day.  In  an  evil  moment  a  golf  rage 
overpowered  me,  and  I  yielded,  seeing  no  special 
reason  why  I  shouldn't.  The  Pau  links  are  the  best 
on  the  Continent,  and  I  had  retained  my  membership 
of  the  club  from  last  year,  when  I  was  here  with  my 
mother,  so  that  was  all  right.  I  nicked  into  a  cab 
and  told  the  man  to  drive  to  the  golf  club. 

The  steward  remembered  me,  so  did  the  profes 
sional;  but  as  it  was  fairly  early  in  the  morning  as 
well  as  early  in  the  season  there  were  only  a  couple  of 
men  in  the  smoking-room.  I  sat  down  to  write  a 
letter  at  a  corner  table,  and  as  one  of  the  fellows  was 
talking  in  loud  tones,  advertising  all  the  wares  in 
his  shop  windows,  sc  to  speak,  I  couldn't  help 
over-hearing  what  he  said.  He  had  one  of  those 
objectionable,  Anglo-maniac,  American  voices  that 
get  on  your  nerves  ;  you  know  the  snobbish  sort 
that,  instead  of  being  proud  as  punch  of  their  own 
country,  want  to  appear  more  English  than  the 


1 62  The  Lightning  Conductor 

English,  and  get  up  for  the  part  like  an  actor  with 
all  an  actor's  exaggerations.  Well,  this  was  one 
of  those  voices;  and  for  all  the  owner  might  have 
taken  his  accent  from  his  groom,  he  was  mightily 
pleased  with  it. 

I  hadn't  looked  at  the  chap  at' first,  but  when  I  heard 
him  telling  his  meek  little  exclamatory  friend  stories 
about  a  lot  of  my  own  friends  (invariably  making 
his  impression  by  mentioning  their  titles  first,  then 
dropping  into  Christian  names),  I  did  take  a  glance 
at  him  over  my  shoulder. 

I  found  him  a  curious  combination  of  Sherlock 
Holmes  and  Little  Lord  Fauntleroy.  He  might 
have  "gone  on"  at  a  moment's  notice  as  understudy 
cither  for  Mr.  William  Gillette  in  the  one  part,  or  for 
that  clever  little  What's-his-name  who  resurrected 
the  latter  in  London  lately;  though  as  for  his  dra 
matic  talent,  I've  yet  to  judge,  and  may  be  called 
upon  to  do  so,  as  you  shall  hear. 

He  went  on  gassing  about  all  sorts  of  impossible 
feats  he'd  accomplished  on  a  Panhard  car,  which 
he  alluded  to  as  his.  According  to  himself,  Fournier 
wasn't  in  it  with  him.  Having  heard  to  the  end  the 
tale  of  a  motor  race  in  which  Sherlock-Fauntleroy, 
in  company  with  the  Duke  of  Bedford,  had  beaten 
King  Edward  the  Seventh,  the  other  man,  deeply 
impressed,  inquired  through  his  nose  (which  he,  being 
frankly  Far- Western,  didn't  mind  using  as  a  channel 
of  communication)  whether  his  magnificent  acquaint 
ance  was  at  present  travelling  on  the  famous  Panhard, 
and  had  it  with  him. 

"No,"  was  the  answer;   "fact  is  I  got  a  bit  tired  of 


The  Lightning  Conductor  163 

keeping  the  road,  and  lent  my  car  to  my  old  friend 
Montie — Lord  Lane,  don't  you  know,  who's  running 
it  about  the  Riviera  now. " 

Aha,  my  boy,  does  that  make  you  sit  up?  I  assure 
you  it  did  me.  And  if,  just  before,  I  hadn't  heard 
the  gentleman  discoursing  on  the  pleasures  of  a 
certain  trip  taken  with  Burford  at  a  date  when  you 
and  Burford  and  I  happened  to  be  together,  I  should 
have  sat  still  straighter.  I  might  have  said  to  myself, 
"So  all  is  discovered.  My  Montie — or  rather  his 
Montie — has  taken  a  leaf  out  of  Brown's  book,  and 
instead  of  stuffing  himself  with  fresh  air  and  eggs  at 
Davos,  is  flashing  about  the  Riviera  in  his  dear 
chum's  Panhard,  which  he  must  have  lately  learnt 
to  drive,  as  he  didn't  know  gearing  from  belts  when 
I  saw  him  last."  As  it  is,  however,  I  assure  you  no 
such  suspicions  are  at  present  keeping  me  awake; 
I've  enough  worries  of  my  own  to  do  that. 

But  Fauntleroy-Holmes  was  continuing,  and  I  sat 
in  my  obscure  corner  inhaling  his  tobacco  smoke  and 
his  equally  ephemeral  anecdotes. 

"I  am  going  on  to  Nice  myself  in  a  day  or  two, 
with  some  ladies,  on  their  motor-car,"  said  he.  "Very 
good  car,  I  believe ;  one  of  the  ladies  very  handsome. 
She  has  a  chauffeur,  of  course,  but  I  shall  drive  and 
let  him  do  the  dirty  work.  I  fancy  I  shall  be  able  to 
show  my  friend  something  in  the  way  of  driving. 
She  wants  to  learn,  and  ought  to  have  good  instruc 
tion  to  begin  with ;  one  never  recovers  form  if  taught 
bad  ways  at  first." 

I  lay  low,  like  Brer  Rabbit,  but  my  ears  were 
burning.  He'd  named  no  names,  and  I  had  no 


164  The  Lightning  Conductor 

reason  to  fit  a  cap  on  anybody's  head.  There  were 
plenty  of  ladies  and  plenty  of  motor-cars  in  Pau,  any 
of  which  might  be  going  to  Nice.  I  had  never  seen 
the  man  before,  and  didn't  believe  Miss  Randolph 
knew  him  from  Adam;  still,  I  had  a  sensation  of 
heat  in  my  ears,  and  when  I'd  finished  the  letter 
I  had  begun  (it  was  to  Burford,  by  the  way,  but 
I  refrained  from  telling  him  how  his  name  had  been 
taken  in  vain,  less  out  of  good  nature  than  because 
I  couldn't  be  bothered),  I  got  up,  went  out,  and  asked 
the  steward  who  the  young  man  was  who  looked  liks 
Sherlock  Holmes. 

He  knew  at  once  who  I  meant,  grinned,  and 
informed  me  that  the  gentleman  was  a  very  rich 
American,  named  Payne,  a  great  amateur  auto^ 
mobilist,  and  a  keen  golfer.  How  he  had  obtained 
all  these  particulars  it  wasn't  difficult  to  guess,  when 
one  reflected  upon  Mr.  Payne's  fondness  for  talking 
of  himself.  By  the  way,  have  you  ever  met  the  man 
at  all? 

A  few  minutes  after  questioning  the  steward,  I  was 
strolling  on  the  lawn  thinking  over  what  I  had  heard, 
when  Sherlock  walked  out  of  the  club,  his  obtrusive 
eyeglass  dangling  from  his  buttonhole. 

He  advanced  towards  me,  somewhat  to  my  sur 
prise,  and  hailed  me  from  afar,  seeing,  I  suppose,  that 
I  was  inclined  to  move  on.  "I  say,  sir,"  he  began, 
"if  you  want  a  game,  will  you  take  me  on?  I've 
a  friend  just  gone,  and  there  doesn't  seem  to  be 
anyone  here  but  you  and  me " 

By  this  time  he  had  stuck  the  big  monocle  in  his 
eye,  where  it  had  somewhat  the  effect  of  a  biscuit. 


The  Lightning  Conductor  165 

I  fancied  it  was  the  addition  of  the  eyeglass  which 
discomposed  his  expression,  but  almost  immediately 
I  realised  that  the  change  was  due  to  a  cause  more 
violent. 

"B — ah  Jove!"  he  ejaculated.  And  then,  "Ton 
my  word,  what  damned  impertinence!"  He  stood 
glaring  at  me  through  that  eyeglass  with  such  an 
"  I  am  the  Duke  of  Omnium,  who  the  devil  are  you?  " 
sort  of  expression  that  I  thought  he  must  be  mad, 
and  I  stared  also,  in  amazed  silence. 

After  looking  me  up  and  down  he  began  again, 
"What  do  you  mean  by  it,  I  want  to  know,  swagger 
ing  about  here,  among  gentlemen,  as  if  you  were  one 
of  Us?  I'll  have  you  put  out  by  the  waiters."  With 
this  extraordinary  outburst  he  turned  on  his  heel,  and 
was  making  off  towards  the  club-house;  but  as  you 
know,  my  temper  is  not  of  the  sweetest,  and  mad  or 
not  mad,  I  didn't  exactly  yearn  over  Mr.  Payne. 
I  took  advantage  of  the  long  legs  about  which  "my 
friend  Montie"  has  occasionally  chaffed  me  and 
caught  him  up.  I  cannot  conceal  from  you  that 
I  did  more.  I  gripped  him  by  the  shoulder.  I  held 
him  firmly,  apparently  somewhat  against  his  will. 
I  also  shook  him,  and  it  now  comes  dimly  back  to 
me  that  his  eyeglass  jumped  out  of  his  eye. 

"You  damned  cad!"  I  then  remarked  in  a  tone 
which  some  people  might  consider  abrupt;  "what  in 
h do  you  mean?  " 

He  took  to  stuttering — some  men  do  in  emergen 
cies — and  I  knew  from  that  instant  that  he  couldn't 
drive  a  motor-car.  "  L — et  go,"  he  stammered  like  a 
schoolboy.  ' '  You — you — confounded  chauffeur,  you ! 


1 66  The  Lightning  Conductor 

I'll  tell  your  mistress  of  you,  and  have  you  discharged. 
You — you're  Miss^,  Randolph's  chauffeur,  and  you 
come  here  to  pass  yourself  off  as  a  member  at  a 
gentleman's  club." 

On  the  point  of  knocking  him  down,  I  decided  I 
wouldn't,  and  dropped  him  instead  like  a  hot  chest 
nut.  You  see,  he  "had  me  on  the  hip";  for  I  am 
Miss  Randolph's  chauffeur,  and  there  was  no  good 
denying  it.  In  a  small  way  it  was  one  of  the  nastiest 
situations  of  my  life.  What  "A."  in  Vanity  Fair 
would  have  done  I  don't  know,  and  I  didn't  know 
what  to  do  myself  for  a  minute.  You  see,  my  pro 
phetic  soul  tells  me  that  the  time  hasn't  come  to 
confess  all  and  throw  myself  on  the  Goddess's  mercy, 
as  I  hope  it  may  some  day;  and  I  couldn't  afford  to 
be  plunged  into  hot  water  with  her  when  the  facts 
would  look  fishy  and  be  impossible  to  explain.  Still, 
I  couldn't  eat  humble  pie  with  that  Bounder;  sooner 
I  would  have  quietly  killed  him,  and  stuffed  him  into 
a  hole  in  the  links.  However,  a  sweet  little  cherub 
of  inspiration  looked  out  for  the  fate  of  poor  Jack, 
and  whispered  an  alternative  in  my  ear. 

"Do  you  dare  deny  it?  "  Payne  demanded,  pluck 
ing  up  courage. 

"I  '  dare'  do  a  good  deal,"  said  I,  looking  him 
straight  in  the  eyes.  "  But  I  don't  intend  to  deny  it. 
I  am  Miss  Randolph's  chauffeur."  How  he  had 
found  that  out  I  couldn't  imagine. 

"Then,  I  can  tell  you,  you  won't  long  remain  so,'' 
blustered  the  fellow,  as  cocksure  as  if  he  were  her 
brother,  or  something  nearer — hang  him!  "A  man 
who  is  capable  of  practising  such  deception  isn't  fit 


The  Lightning  Conductor  167 

to  be  trusted  with  a  lady.  I  shall  get  you  the 
sack." 

"You  ought  to  be  a  good  judge  of  deception,"  said 
I.  "Have  you  told  Miss  Randolph  yet  about  that 
trip  of  yours  with  the  Duke  of  Burford  last 
summer?" 

Sherlock-Fauntleroy  got  as  red  as  a  beet,  and  the 
Fauntleroy  characteristics  predominated.  I  thought 
tears  were  about  to  start  from  his  eyes,  but  he  merely 
relapsed  into  another  fit  of  the  stutters.  "  Wh — hat 
d — do  you  mean?  "  he  chattered.  "  Y — you  don't 
know  what  you're  talking  about." 

"Oh  yes,  I  do,"  I  said,  growing  calmer  as  he  grew 
excited,  "a  good  deal  more  than  you  knew  what  you 
were  talking  about  when  you  claimed  the  Duke  as 
your  friend.  I  happened  to  be  with  him  at  the  time 
last  summer,  when  you  said  you  were  driving  him  on 
your  car." 

"  You  with  the  Duke!  "  sneered  Sherlock.  "Who 
would  believe  that?  " 

"Miss  Randolph  would,"  said  I.  "The  Duke  of 
Burford  was  driving  his  own  car  last  summer.  Now 
you  can  guess  how  I  happened  to  be  with  him. 
There  was  just  one  other  man  on  board;  your 
friend  Montie,  Lord  Lane,  you  know.  Lord  Lane 
was  another  of  my  old  masters."  (Hope  you  don't 
object  to  being  referred  to  as  an  Old  Master,  and 
I  was  your  fag  at  Eton.)  "I  know  him  very  well. 
He  can  do  a  good  many  things,  can  Lord  Lane, 
but  he  can't  drive  a  motor-car.  And  another  little 
detail  you've  got  wrong.  He  isn't  running  about 
on  the  Riviera.  He  is  at  Davos  Platz.  I've  had  a 


1 68  The  Lightning  Conductor 

letter  from  him  there  the  other  day;  he's  very 
thoughtful  of  his  old  servants.  Miss  Randolph 
would  think  it  queer  if  you  said  you  expected  to 
meet  Lord  Lane  on  the  Riviera  with  your  car,  and 
I  showed  her  a  letter  from  him  which  proved  he'd 
been  at  Davos  for  the  last  six  weeks.  Or  he  wouldn't 
mind  telegraphing  if  I  wired." 

"You're  a  regular  blackmailer,"  gasped  Payne. 

"Not  at  all,"  said  I.  "I  suggest  a  bargain,  but  I 
don't  want  money.  All  I  want  is  not  to  lose  my 
job.  Don't  you  give  me  away,  and  I  won't  give  you 
away.  Do  you  agree  to  that  compromise  and  no 
more  said?  " 

We  had  been  holding  each  other  by  the 'eye,  but 
suddenly  his  wandered,  assisted  by  the  monocle.  So 
odd  an  expression  sat  on  his  face  that  I  followed  his 
straying  glance,  and  saw  what  he  saw — Miss  Ran 
dolph!  Miss  Randolph  at  one  of  the  long  French 
windows  of  the  club-house,  with  several  other  ladies. 
Without  a  second's  hesitation  I  gripped  Payne  by 
the  arm  and  dragged  him  across  the  lawn,  using  him 
as  a  screen.  Once  round  the  corner  of  the  house, 
I  let  him  go;  but  I  dared  not  wait  to  chaffer.  "Re 
member,  it's  a  bargain,"  I  reminded  the  fellow. 
"  While  you  keep  to  your  part  I  keep  to  mine,  and 
not  a  moment  longer."  With  this  I  darted  into  one 
of  the  waiting  cabs.  That  was  a  narrow  shave,  but  I 
congratulated  myself  that  I  had  come  out  of  it  "on 
top,"  joyful  in  the  hope  that  I  should  snatch  Miss 
Randolph  away  in  a  day  or  two,  and  the  episode 
would  be  closed.  But  mice  and  men  should  go  slow 
in  self-congratulation.  Even  a  confirmed  liar  occa- 


The  Lightning  Conductor  169 

sionally  tells  the  truth  by  mistake.  Next  day 
(which  means  to-day)  I  learned  this  through  bitter 
experience.  Nothing  had  happened,  and  when  I 
presented  myself  to  Miss  Randolph  in  the  morning 
for  orders,  her  manner  was  so  pleasant,  so  exactly 
the  same  as  usual,  that  I  made  sure  Mr.  Payne 
had  chosen  the  better  part  of  valour  and  held  his 
peace.  Evening  came,  however;  my  mistress  sent 
for  me,  as  I  was  informed  through  the  invaluable 
hall-porter.  Coward  conscience,  or  some  other  in 
tricate  internal  organ,  gave  a  twinge.  I  asked  myself 
blankly  if  I  had  been  betrayed,  if  I  were  in  for  a 
scolding,  if  I  should  have  to  choose  between  being 
ignominiously  chucked  out  of  my  precious  berth,  or 
prematurely  owning  up  to  the  trick  I  have  played, 
with  the  consequent  risk  ot  losing  my  lady  forever. 
I  felt  pretty  sick  as  I  went  up  the  servants'  stairs  to 
Miss  Randolph's  floor  at  the  "Gassisn"  and  knocked 
at  the  door  of  her  private  sitting-room. 

The  door  was  on  the  latch,  and  as  I  tapped  I  heard 
Aunt  Mary  exclaim  in  a  tone  of  extreme  scorn,  "Ask 
him  '*"/  he  objects'  indeed!  One  would  think  you 
were  the  servant  and  he  the  master.  You  shall  do 
nothing  of  the  kind." 

My  knocking  evidently  cut  short  the  argument. 
Miss  Randolph  called  "Come  in!"  and  I  obeyed,  all 
black  leather  and  humility.  I  hardly  raised  my  eyes 
to  the  ladies,  yet  I  saw  that  She  was  looking  adorable 
in  a  white  dress,  with  nothing  but  sparkling  lacey 
stuff  over  the  loveliest  neck  and  arms  on  earth.  She 
smiled,  so  I  hoped  that  my  sin  had  not  found  me  out, 
but  it  was  not  precisely  one  of  her  own  frank,  starry 


170  The  Lightning  Conductor 

smiles;  there  was  something  new  and  constrained, 
and  my  heart  still  misgave  me. 

"Brown,"  said  she  (and  I  observed  that  Aunt 
Mary  had  fixed  her  with  a  threatening  eye),  "Brown, 
I  thought  I'd  send  for  you  to  say  that  we'll  have 
another  passenger  to-morrow  for  a  few  days.  Or 
that  is  we  may  have  to  ask  him  to  drive  sometimes, 
out  of  politeness,  for  I  believe  he's  a  good  driver, 
and  he  might  be  hurt  if  we  didn't;  though  I'm  sure 
he  drives  no  better  than  you." 

By  this  time  I  knew  what  was  coming,  and  steeled 
myself  to  bear  it,  but  there  might  have  been  a  cer 
tain  involunatry  elongation  of  countenance,  for  the 
poor  child  rushed  into  explanations  to  save  my 
battered  feelings.  "You  see,"  she  went  on,  "this 
gentleman,  Mr.  Payne,  is  a  very  old  friend  of  the 
family,  and  he  has  been  travelling  in  Europe  a  long 
time,  for  a  rest.  He  overworked  himself  or  some 
thing,  and  broke  down.  Now,  he  has  lent  his  car 
to  an  English  friend  of  his,  Lord  Lane,  whom  he 
arranged  to  rejoin  on  the  Riviera.  But  he  doesn't 
feel  well,  and  railway  travelling  disagrees  with  him. 
His  doctor  here  has  just  told  him  that  he  must  be 
continually  in  the  open  air  if  he  doesn't  want  to  have 
a  relapse;  and  Miss  Kedison  thinks  my  father  would 
be  annoyed  if  we  didn't  ask  him  to  drive  with  us,  as 
we  are  going  the  way  he  must  go.  The  Napier  is 
such  a  fine  car,  I  suppose  it  can  take  four  as  well  as 
three,  and  a  little  more  luggage?'* 

"  Oh  yes,  miss,  there'll  be  no  difficulty  about  that*" 
I  answered  grudgingly. 


The  Lightning  Conductor  171 

"And  you  won't  feel  that  it  is  lack  of  trust  in  you, 
if  he  drives  part  of  the  time?" 

At  this  Aunt  Mary  glared,  but  that  Angel  paid  not 
the  slightest  attention. 

There  is  an  unwritten  law  that  a  man  shall  not  be 
a  brute;  and  after  her  sweet  consideration  of  my 
chauffery  feelings  I  couldn't  show  myself  ungracious. 
I  assured  her  that  I  should  not  feel  hurt,  and  that 
she  was  very  kind  to  think  of  me  at  all.  I  would  do 
my  best  for  the  party,  unless,  of  course,  my  services 
would  be  superfluous,  now  that  she  was  to  be  accom 
panied  by  a  friend  who  was  a  competent  driver. 

I  wonder  what  I  should  have  done  in  the  unlikely 
event  that  she  took  me  at  my  word?  Picture  my 
feelings,  bereft  of  my  Goddess,  bereft  of  my  Napier 
at  one  and  the  same  time,  constrained  to  resignation, 
while  a  confounded  impostor  drove  off  with  both 
from  under  my  very  nose!  Miss  Randolph  hastened 
to  deny  any  such  thought,  and  to  impress  upon  me 
my  value  as  a  chauffeur.  But  things  are  bad  enough 
as  they  are. 

Here  I  am  saddled  with  a  fellow  who  hates  me  as 
a  cur  hates  a  man  who  has  thrashed  him,  and  will 
snap  if  he  dares.  Instead  of  turning  my  back  upon 
him,  I  have  to  carry  him  away  on  it;  and  if  a  rod 
isn't  in  pickle  for  me,  I'm  not 

Your  old  friend, 

JACK  WINSTON. 


FROM  JACK  WINSTON  TO  LORD  LANE 

TOULOUSE,  December  16. 

Dear  Montie, 

I  can't  let  you  alone,  you  see.  I  must  un 
burden  myself,  or  something  will  happen — something 
apoplectic.  If  I  have  sinned,  I  am  punished;  and 
so  far  as  I  can  see  the  worst  still  stretches  before  me 
in  a  long  vista.  It  was  good  of  you  to  scrawl  oft 
that  second  letter,  at  midnight,  as  an  afterthought. 
It  was  forwarded,  and  has  just  reached  me  here,  by 
grand  good  luck. 

You  say  I  would  do  better  to  make  a  clean  breast 
of  it;  but  that's  easier  said  than  done.  You're  not 
here,  and  you  can't  see  the  "lie  of  the  land"  as  I  can. 
I'll  explain  the  position  to  you,  from  my  point  of 
view,  for  I  think  you  don't  quite  understand  it. 

Not  to  mince  matters,  I  am  a  Fraud,  and  Miss 
Randolph  is  the  sort  of  girl  to  resent  being  imposed 
upon,  If  this  Payne,  who  rejoices  in  the  name  of 
Jimmy,  should  find  out  the  truth  about  me  and  tell 
her  to-morrow,  she  would  be  exceedingly  angry,  as 
she  would  have  a  right  to  be,  and  would,  I  think, 
find  it  hard  to  forgive  me.  It  is  because  I  have  felt 
this  instinctively  that  I  have  let  things  slide.  I  have 
drifted  down  the  stream  of  enjoyment,  saying  to  the 
passing  hour,  like  Goethe's  hero,  "Stay,  thou  art 

172 


The  Lightning  Conductor  173 

fair,"  though  too  often  the  thought  would  present 
itself  that  this  could  not  go  on  for  ever.  Besides, 
there  were  drawbacks,  big  or  little,  according  to  my 
mood.  I  have  always  kept  it  before  myself,  more 
or  less,  that  some  day  Miss  Randolph  would  dispense 
with  me  and  my  car,  in  the  natural  course  of  affairs, 
even  if  the  event  were  not  hastened  by  some  contre 
temps  or  other ;  and  that  it  might  then  be  as  difficult 
to  adjust  matters  as  it  is  now.  But  in  truth  I  hope 
it  won't  be  so.  What  I  aim  to  do  is  to  make  myself 
so  indispensable  to  her  as  Brown  that  she  can't  bring 
herself  to  get  on  without  me  as  Jack  Winston.  I 
haven't  done  that  yet,  though  it  isn't  for  lack  of 
trying;  therefore  I'm  not  ready  for  the  crisis,  and 
therefore  I'm  afraid  of  Payne.  Yes,  "afraid,"  that's 
the  word.  And  my  one  consolation  is  that  he's 
equally  afraid  of  me. 

Your  ordinary,  habitual  liar  can  bear  up  if  he's 
found  out,  and  laugh  it  off  somehow,  but  your  snob 
and  boaster  can't.  This  man  could  hardly  survive 
being  stripped  of  his  dukes  and  earls,  with  which  he's 
covered  his  untitled  nakedness  as  with  a  mantle,  for 
the  eyes  of  Miss  Randolph.  In  this  natural  phen 
omenon  lies  my  chance  of  gaining  time,  and  other 
things  that  I  want. 

You  would  have  had  some  pure  enjoyment  out 
of  to-day  if  you  had  been  the  fifth  person  on  my 
Napier.  If  you  could  have  heard  Aunt  Mary  (who, 
in  common  with  a  certain  type  of  American,  worships 
a  title  and  rolls  it  on  her  tongue  as  if  it  were  a  plover's 
egg  out  of  season)  asking  "Jimmy"  questions  about 
his  grand  English  friends'  Knowing  that  my  cold 


174  The  Lightning  Conductor 

and  venomous  eye  was  upon  him,  and  writhing 
under  it,  he  had  to  answer  her  questions.  "What 
sort  of  looking  man  is  the  Duke  of  Burford,  Jimmy? 
Did  you  ever  stay  at  any  of  his  country  places?  Is 
it  true  that  he  often  entertains  the  Royalties?  Were 
you  ever  asked  to  a  house-party  to  meet  the  King  and 
Queen?  " 

I  could  almost  have  found  it  in  my  heart  to  pity 
him;  but  my  interests  at  stake  were  too  big  for  me 
to  have  derived  the  serene  pleasure  from  the  situa 
tion  that  you  might  have  enjoyed  as  an  initiated 
outsider.  But  with  my  attempted  explanations  and 
my  chortlings  I've  digressed  too  much,  and  I'll  get 
back  to  "Hecuba." 

We  started  from  the  "Gassion. "  Miss  Randolph 
announced  that  she  would  drive  at  first.  This  was, 
I  judged,  a  sop  for  me,  as  Cerberus.  But  Payne  was 
given  the  seat  of  honour  beside  her,  and  I  was  rele 
gated  to  the  tonneau  with  Aunt  Mary  and  the  other 
impedimenta.  My  day  was  over ! 

Miss  Kedison  considers  it  infra  dig.  to  converse 
with  a  servant,  though  she  has  been  content  often 
enough  to  use  me  as  a  guide-book.  She  doesn't 
like  sitting  in  front,  so  she  was  obliged  to  put  up 
with  my  physical  nearness,  but  she  took  pains  to 
emphasise  her  soul's  remoteness.  I  think  her  opinion 
of  me  has  been  for  some  time  that  I  am  "too  big 
for  my  boots, "  and  I  was  not  surprised  to  learn  that 
it  was  by  her  advice  Mr.  Payne  had  been  invited 
to  join  the  party.  No  doubt  she  thought  it  would 
put  me  in  my  proper  place,  and  so  it  has.  Besides, 
we  had  not  been  long  en  route  when  I  gleaned 


The  Lightning  Conductor  175 

from  several  indications,  small  in  themselves,  that 
"Jimmy"  is  a  great  favourite  with  her,  so  great  that 
she  would  not  object  to  becoming  his  aunt  by  mar 
riage.  They  are  warm  friends,  and  if  he  hasn't  al 
ready  poured  into  her  ear  confidences  prejudicial  to 
me,  there,  I  fear,  lies  danger  for  the  future. 

We  had  not  been  gone  long  from  Pau  before  Miss 
Randolph  glanced  round  at  me — a  risky  thing  to  do 
when  you're  driving;  but  the  road  was  straight  and 
clear  as  far  as  the  eye  could  see.  I  was  half  in 
hopes  she  would  request  me  to  drive;  but  not  so. 
"By  the  way,  Brown,"  said  she,  "I  forgot  to  ask; 
didn't  I  see  you  at  the  golf  club  the  other  day  ? " 

From  the  form  of  the  question  I  couldn't  tell 
whether  Payne  had  played  the  sneak  or  not,  nor 
could  I  guess  from  her  face,  as  she  had  turned  to 
business  again.  As  for  him,  he  had  ignored  me 
haughtily  since  the  start. 

"Me,  miss,  at  the  golf  club?"  I  promptly  pro 
tested,  regardless  of  grammar  and  not  sure  I  wasn't 
in  for  an  explosion  which  would  blow  poor  Brown 
sky-high;  "why,  a  chauffeur  wouldn't  be  admitted 
there. " 

"I  suppose  not,"  she  answered  over  her  shoulder. 
"  But  there  was  a  man  very  like  you  when  my  friends 
took  me — and  walking  with  Mr.  Payne,  too." 

"Now  for  it!"  thought  I.  But  then  Jimmy's  first 
words  reassured  me.  "Oh,  I  don't  know  all  the 
strangers  one  talks  to  at  a  club, "  he  replied  in  haste; 
and  then,  by  way  of  changing  the  subject,  the 
bounder  asked  Miss  Randolph  if  she  wouldn't  let 
him  drive.  "  It's  over  a  hundred  miles  to  Toulouse, 


176  The  Lightning  Conductor 

and  you'll  want  a  firm  hand,  for  the  days  are  short,  '* 
he  had  the  impudence  to  add. 

At  that  I  lost  my  head,  and  made  a  big  mistake. 
I  felt  I  couldn't  stand  sitting  still  while  he  tried 
experiments  with  my  car,  and  almost  before  I  knew 
what  I  was  doing  I  blurted  out,  "Beg  pardon,  miss, 
but  are  you  sure  this  gentleman  understands  driving 
a  Napier?  My  master  expected  that  /  was  to  drive 
his  car  when  he  let  it  out,  and " 

Such  a  look  of  reproach  as  the  Goddess  threw  me ! 
"But  I  understand  that,  while  I  hire  the  car  it  is 
mine  to  do  as  I  like  with,  in  reason,"  she  cut  me 
short.  "  Mr.  Payne  tells  me  that  he  has  often  driven 
his  friend  the  Duke  of  Burford's  Napier.  And  if 
anything  happens  to  your  master's  car  while  I  have 
it,  I  will  pay  for  the  damage  up  to  its  full  value,  so 
your  mind  may  be  at  ease  on  his  account.  "  f~^ 

With  this  well-deserved,  but  none  the  less  crushing 
snub  she  brought  the  car  to  a  standstill  and  inad 
vertently  stopped  the  motor.  After  virtually  agree 
ing  the  night  before  to  let  Payne  drive,  I  ought 
to  have  kept  my  mouth  shut;  but  you  will  admit 
that  the  temptation  was  strong.  I  descended,  like 
a  well-conducted  chauffeur,  to  help  my  mistress 
change  places  with  my  hated  rival,  and  of  course 
it  was  my  duty  to  start  the  motor  again,  which  I  did. 
Before  I  could  get  out  of  the  way,  Payne  started — 
on  the  third  speed,  like  the  duffer  he  is,  changing 
so  quickly  to  the  second  that  I  had  to  race  after  the 
car  and  hurl  myself  into  the  tonneau  to  avoid  being 
left  behind.  In  doing  this  I  unfortunately  trod  on 
Aunt  Mary's  toes.  She  groaned,  glared,  and  mut- 


The  Lightning  Conductor  177 

tered  only  half  below  her  breath,  "  Clumsy  creature ! " 
Thoroughly  humiliated,  and  no  longer  in  a  mood  to 
care  whether  their  Jimmy  wrecked  the  car  and 
killed  us  (all  but  one)  I  took  my  seat.  I  do  believe 
that  Aunt  Mary  secretly  thinks  me  capable  of  having 
misjudged  and  ill-treated  Eyelashes,  who  laid  him 
self  out  to  "  be  nice  "  to  her. 

Hardly  had  we  started  when  I  heard  Miss  Ran 
dolph  telling  Payne  that  this  car  belonged  to  the 
Honourable  John  Winston,  Lord  Brighthelmston's 
son,  and  asking  him  if  he  had  ever  met  Mr.  Winston. 
I  suppose  that,  in  the  excitement  of  managing  a 
big  machine  which  he  knew  little  or  nothing  about, 
Payne  forgot  that,  since  I  "went  with  the  car,'*  the 
owner  must  have  been  one  of  those  (to  him)  fatal 
old  masters  of  mine.  He  can't  bear  to  deny  the 
soft  impeachment  of  knowing  anyone  whom  he 
thinks  may  be  a  swell,  and  in  the  hurry  of  the  mo 
ment  habit  got  the  better  of  prudence. 

"Oh  yes,  I  know  Jack  very  well!  "  he  exclaimed; 
then  drew  in  his  breath  with  a  little  gasp  which  he 
turned  into  a  cough.  In  that  moment  he  had 
probably  remembered  me. 

"  I  suppose  you  know  his  mother,  then?  "  said  Miss 
Randolph.  "I  met  her  in  Paris.  She's  at  Cannes 
now,  and  so  you  will  see  her  there." 

"Ye — es,"  returned  Jimmy.  "Oh  yes,  I  shall 
certainly  see  her.  I  know  Lord  Brighthelmston 
better  than  I  do  her;  but  I  shall  call,  of  course." 

What  with  his  fear  of  having  committed  himself 
anew,  and  the  chill  in  his  marrow  produced  by  my 
critical  eye  on  his  vertebrae,  he  grew  more  and  more 


178  The  Lightning  Conductor 

nervous,  wobbling  whenever  there  was  a  delicate 
piece  of  steering  to  be  done  or  a  restive  horse  to 
be  passed.  He  changed  speeds  so  clumsily  that  the 
pinions  went  together  with  a  crash  each  time,  and 
shivers  ran  up  and  down  my  spine  when  I  heard  the 
noise  and  thought  of  the  damage  this  conceited  idiot 
might  do  to  my  poor  gears.  Could  you  stand  by 
like  Patience  on  the  lee  cathead,  smiling  at  a  wet 
swab,  while  some  duffer  with  a  whip  and  spurs 
bestrode  your  favourite  stallion,  Roland?  Perhaps 
that  simile  will  help  you  to  understand  how  I've  been 
feeling  all  day. 

Payne  is  a  rank  amateur.  I  doubt  if  he  ever 
drove  a  Napier  before,  and  would  bet  something  he 
depended  for  his  success  to-day  (such  as  it  was)  on 
keen  observation  of  everything  Miss  Randolph  did 
before  he  took  the  helm.  He  knows  how  to  steer 
a  moderately  straight  course  and  to  change  speeds — 
that's  about  all;  and  I  wouldn't  trust  his  nerve  in 
an  emergency.  However,  we  bowled  along  without 
incident  through  Tarbes  and  Tournay,  thanks  more 
to  the  fine  car  than  the  driver;  but  when  mounting 
a  long  stretch  of  steep  road  beyond  a  place  called 
Lanespede,  where  a  great  railway  viaduct  crosses  the 
valley,  Payne  missed  his  change,  and  then  completely 
lost  his  head,  failing  to  put  on  the  brakes  to  prevent 
us  running  down  the  hill  backwards.  Luckily  I  was 
sitting  on  the  brake  side,  and  reaching  out  of  the 
tonne au,  I  seized  the  lever  of  the  hand-brake  and 
jammed  it  on.  Next  instant  (to  make  quite  sure) 
I  jumped  out,  ran  to  the  front,  and  lowered  the 
sprag.  I  don't  think  any  of  them  knew  what  a 


The  Lightning  Conductor  179 

narrow  escape  we'd  had,  and  Payne  covered  himself 
by  abusing  the  car.  We  started  up  again  on  the 
second,  and  came  out  on  an  undulating  plain  over 
looking  a  little  watering-place  called  Capvern-les- 
Bains,  lying  far  below  in  a  dimple  of  the  Pyrenean 
foothills. 

There  was  no  other  incident  till  we  came  to  Mon- 
trejeau,  where  my  road-book  showed  that  there 
was  an  uncommonly  steep  hill.  So  I  ventured  to 
say  over  Payne's  shoulder,  "Better  look  out  here, 
sir;  a  bad  hill."  The  cad  had  not  the  civility  to 
notice  my  warning,  but  charged  through  the  long 
street  of  the  town  till  he  came  to  the  verge  of  a 
dangerous  descent,  dipping  steeply  and  suddenly  for 
a  little  way,  then  turning  abruptly  to  the  left.  He 
was  taking  the  hill  at  a  reckless  pace,  not  because 
he  was  plucky,  but  because' he  knew  no  better;  and 
half-way  down,  seeing  a  lumbering  station-omnibus 
climbing  slowly  up,  not  leaving  much  room,  he  began 
to  get  wild  in  his  steering.  Again  I  hung  out,  and 
gently  but  firmly  put  on  the  hand-brake,  steadying 
the  car.  The  idiot  didn't  even  see  how  I  had  saved 
him,  for  when  we  got  safely  down  he  said  to  Miss 
Randolph,  "Took  that  hill  flying,  didn't  I?  "  I  can 
tell  you  I  was  glad  when  we  pulled  up  for  luncheon 
at  St.  Gaudens,  knowing  that  the  road  here  turns 
away  from  the  Pyrenees  to  cross  the  great  plain  of 
Languedoc. 

Blessed  plain  of  Languedoc,  which  has  been  abused 
by  some  travellers  for  its  monotony!  Sitting  silently 
in  the  tonneau  with  Aunt  Mary,  I  revelled  in  the 
long,  straight  level  of  wide,  poplar-fringed  road  that 


1 80  The  Lightning  Conductor 

stretched  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  running  up 
to  a  point  in  the  distant  perspective.  "Here,  at  any 
rate,"  I  reflected,  "the  duffer  at  the  wheel  can't  do  us 
much  harm."  It  was  a  beautiful  scene,  had  I  been 
in  tune  to  enjoy  it,  for  the  Pyrenees  showed  their 
blue  outlines  on  the  far  horizon,  and  the  Garonne 
gave  us  many  pictures  near  at  hand.  There  was  in 
particular  one  sweet  sylvan  "bit"  at  a  place  called 
St.  Martory,  which,  though  it  was  but  a  fleeting 
glimpse,  framed  itself  in  my  mind  with  all  the  pre 
cision  of  a  stereoscopic  view. 

It  was  a  relief  to  me,  when  this  evening,  we  ran 
into  Toulouse;  its  many  buildings  of  brick  lying 
along  the  bank  of  the  broad  and  peaceful  Garonne, 
looking  curiously  rose-hued  in  the  level  rays  of  the 
declining  sun. 

But  poor  car!  when  I  set  to  work  at  cleaning  it 
after  its  ill-treatment  it  seemed  to  reproach  me  for 
disloyalty.  Its  very  lamps  were  like  mournful,  mis 
understood  eyes.  And  this  is  only  the  first  day  of 
many.  How  long,  O  friend,  how  long?  I  don't 
quite  see  what  is  to  become  of  your  unfortunate 

JACK  WINSTON 

NARBONNE,  December  17. 

I  didn't  post  the  beginning  of  this  letter.  I  felt 
I  should  want  to  add  something. 

Another  day  has  passed — a  day  of  alarms  and 
excursions.  Payne  has  made  an  ass  of  himself, 
and  I  have  scored  off  him,  winning  my  way  back 
to  the  front  seat  of  the  car,  and  relegating  him  to 


The  Lightning  Conductor  181 

the  tonneau  with  Aunt  Mary.  But  I  have  not  shaken 
him  off.  He's  still  in  our  pocket,  and  to  all  appear 
ance  means  to  stick  there.  The  situation,  therefore, 
remains  essentially  what  it  was  yesterday. 

But  for  the  incident  of  which  I  will  tell  you,  this 
might  have  been  one  of  the  most  delightful  bits  of  the 
whole  tour.  Even  though  at  first  I  was  stuffed  into 
the  tonneau,  I  couldn't  help  finding  pleasure  in  the 
pictures  through  which  we  flashed  in  the  earlier  part 
of  the  day. 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  pavt  to  traverse  before  we 
were  clear  of  Toulouse,  and  then  we  came  into  a  fine, 
open  world,  chasing  and  passing  many  peasants' 
carts.  These  always  occupy  the  middle  of  the  road, 
and  as  their  drivers  are  often  asleep,  there  is  much 
blowing  of  the  horn  and  shouting  before  they  pull 
over  to  their  right  side.  Presently  we  found  out  the 
meaning  of  this  stream  of  carts,  for  we  ran  into  a 
large  village  with  turkeys  and  geese  all  over  the  road, 
like  carpet  bedding,  tied  by  the  legs  and  cackling 
loudly.  There  were  crowds  of  peasants — old  and 
young;  the  old  women  with  neat,  black  silk  head 
dresses  framing  their  brown,  wrinkled  faces;  and 
through  the  midst  of  this  animated  scene  we  had  to 
drive  at  a  foot-pace,  tootling  on  the  horn.  On  the 
other  side  of  the  long  village  we  found  ourselves  on 
a  wide,  level  road,  that  for  smoothness  would  shame  a 
billiard-table,  crossed  the  green  Canal  du  Midi,  and 
ran  for  a  while  by  its  side,  passing  a  queer  obelisk 
erected  to  Riquet,  its  constructor. 

Suddenly,  on  mounting  a  hill,  an  enormous  view 
spread  out  before  us.  The  distant  Pyrenees  showed 


1 82  The  Lightning  Conductor 

their  serrated  line  far  away  to  the  right,  their  snowy 
tops  spectral  over  an  intervening  range  of  hills;  to 
the  left  stretched  a  vast,  undulating  tract  of  country, 
with  towns  and  church  spires  distinctly  outlined  in 
the  clear,  crisp  air — for  it  was  a  day  of  glorious 
lights.  Beyond  all  was  a  range  of  vague,  blue  hills 
which  I  knew  to  be  the  Cevennes,  sacred  to  the 
memory  of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 

We  sped  through  village  after  village — a  long 
street;  children  in  blouses  playing  strange  games, 
disputing  in  shrill  voices,  wagging  little  eloquent 
fingers  under  each  other's  noses;  handsome  men 
clothed  in  blue,  with  red  sashes  and  the  universal 
berret  on  their  heads,  guiding  with  their  cruel  goads 
patient  teams  of  yoked  oxen;  a  group  of  persons 
round  a  church  door — a  wedding,  perhaps  a  funeral ; 
old  women  knitting  in  the  sun,  young  women  smiling 
from  windows — all  these  impressions  follow  each 
other  like  flickering  pictures  in  a  cinematograph; 
and  then  with  the  last  flicker  one  is  out  again  on  the 
broad,  white  road,  with  the  flying  trees  spinning  by 
on  either  hand,  and  the  white,  filmy  clouds  floating 
in  an  azure  sky.  It  is  only  on  the  motor-car  that  you 
get  all  these  sensations.  In  a  train  you  are  in  a  box; 
on  a  motor  you  are  in  a  chariot  of  fire  with  the  wide 
heavens  open  above  you. 

At  Castelnaudary  there  was  another  scene  of  ani 
mation,  for  here  also  it  was  market  day;  and  though 
it  was  only  twenty  miles  or  so  on  to  Carcassonne  (our 
intended  destination),  my  betters  decided  that  they 
would  take  luncheon  at  the  hotel  in  Castelnaudary. 
For  the  first  time  since  Payne  has  been  with  us  Miss 


The  Lightning  Conductor  183 

Randolph  seemed  to  wish  to  restore  me  to  my  old, 
lost  footing.  "You  must  lunch  with  us,  Brown," 
she  said,  with  a  smile  that  goes  straight  to  one's 
heart.  But  I  was  not  in  a  gracious  mood.  I  had 
had  enough  of  Aunt  Mary;  I  could  not  stand  the 
haughty  Payne.  I  answered,  therefore,  rather  shortly. 
There  were  certain  adjustments  to  be  done  on  the 
car  which  would  occupy  some  time,  I  said,  and 
I  would  take  my  luncheon  later.  Her  poor  little 
friendly  smile  went  out,  like  a  lamp  extinguished. 
For  an  instant  she  lingered,  then  turned  away  with 
out  a  word,  and  I  could  have  bitten  out  my  own 
surly  tongue. 

To  justify  myself  I  pottered  with  the  car,  then 
went  moping  off  to  another  hotel,  and  tried  to  restore 
my  lost  spirits  with  pate  de  joie  de  canard  and  fresh 
walnuts,  which  would  have  delighted  the  palate  of  a 
happier  man. 

At  it  was  I  had  neither  the  heart  nor  the  stomach 
to  linger  over  the  feast,  and  consequently  got  back 
long  before  the  others  were  ready  for  me.  They 
didn't  hurry  themselves.  I  promise  you.  While  busy 
ing  myself  in  flicking  dust  off  the  car,  a  courteous 
little  crowd  assembled  and  questioned  me  as  to  the 
make  of  the  car  (expressing  surprise  when  they  heard 
it  was  all  English,  even  to  the  tyres)  and  as  to  how 
far  I  had  come.  When  I  said  "From  Dieppe  via 
Biarritz"  a  murmur  of  respect  rippled  to  the  outer 
edge  of  the  group,  and  at  this  moment  my  party 
appeared. 

Payne  wore  a  swaggering  air,  and  looked  now  like 
Little  Lord  Fauntleroy  gone  wrong.  He  was  far  too 


184  The  Lightning  Conductor 

big  a  man  to  notice  me,  or  any  of  the  kindly,  simple 
people  who  had  been  admiring  the  car,  and  came  up 
with  us,  talking  his  loudest  to  Aunt  Mary.  He  almost 
elbowed  me  aside,  and  got  into  the  driver's  seat  as  a 
matter  of  course.  Perhaps  he  had  looked  upon  the 
rich  wine  of  the  country  when  it  was  red,  though 
I  didn't  think  of  that  at  the  time,  and  attributed 
his  exaggerated  insolence  to  natural  cussedness  of 
soul. 

We  swept  away  from  the  hotel  with  a  curve,  which 
isn't  a  line  of  beauty  for  a  motor-car,  and  as  we  left 
the  town  Jimmy's  conception  of  his  part  as  driver 
became  so  eccentric  that  Miss  Randolph  looked 
worried — that  is,  her  pretty  shoulders  stiffened  them 
selves;  I  couldn't  often  see  her  face — and  Aunt  Mary 
more  than  once  gave  vent  to  a  frightened  squeak. 
Once,  in  her  extremity  as  we  shaved  the  wheel  of 
a  passing  cart,  she  unbent  so  far  as  to  throw  an 
appealing  glance  at  me.  But  I  sat  in  stony  silence 
with  crossed  arms,  looking  oblivious  to  all  that  went 
on  and  somewhat  resembling,  I  flattered  myself, 
portraits  of  Napoleon  beholding  the  burning  of 
Moscow. 

On  the  high  road  Jimmy  began  to  recover  his  form 
— if  it  be  worth  the  name — but,  as  if  to  show  that  he 
was  all  right,  and  never  had  been  otherwise,  he  put 
the  car  at  its  quickest  pace,  which  was  so  far  from 
safe  on  a  road  dotted  with  carts  that  I  began  to 
expect  trouble;  and  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Miss  Ran 
dolph,  to  see  my  expectation  fulfilled  would  have 
pleased  the  baser  part  of  me.  Once  or  twice  a  cart- 
bad  of  peasants  scowled  savagely  at  us  as  we  rushed 


The  Lightning  Conductor  185 

past  on  our  headlong  career,  and  at  length  I  had  the 
satisfaction  of  hearing  Miss  Randolph  rather  stiffly 
suggest  that  Jimmy  should  moderate  the  pace.  He 
obeyed  with  a  laugh,  which  he  meant  to  be  recklessly 
brave,  yet  indulgent  to  the  weaknesses  of  women; 
but  in  my  ears  it  only  sounded  silly.  At  this  moment 
a  two-wheeled  cart  with  five  peasants  in  it — three 
men  and  two  women — came  in  sight. 

As  soon  as  they  saw  us  one  of  the  men — a  big, 
black-browed  fellow — held  up  his  hand  imperatively 
in  warning.  Another  fine,  muscular  chap  jumped 
down  and  ran  to  the  horse's  head.  Anyone  with 
a  grain  of  sense  or  consideration,  on  seeing  these 
signals,  would  have  slowed  down,  and  if  necessary 
have  stopped  the  engine  altogether;  but  though  I 
heard  Miss  Randolph  beg  him  to  go  slow,  Sherlock- 
Fauntleroy  held  right  on  at  a  good  twenty-five  miles 
an  hour. 

In  a  moment  or  two  we  had  come  level  with  the 
cart,  and  the  horse  bolted.  The  man  leading  it  was 
thrown  violently  to  the  ground,  and  the  cart  went 
over  him.  Luckily  he  tucked  in  his  head  and  drew 
up  his  feet,  or  he  would  have  been  shockingly 
hurt,  perhaps  killed.  He  lay  a  moment  or  two,  half 
stunned  with  the  shock,  while  the  horse  galloped 
away,  dragging  after  him  the  swaying  cart,  the  two 
women  screaming  at  the  top  of  their  voices.  The 
man  driving  managed  to  pull  up  the  frightened 
animals  some  way  down  the  road,  and  the  people 
in  the  cart  scrambled  out  to  help  their  fallen  friend, 
who  meanwhile  had  picked  himself  up,  and  pale 
with  fright  and  passion,  blood  streaming  down  his 


1 86  The  Lightning  Conductor 

face,  was  limping  after  the  car  gesticulating  vio 
lently. 

Payne  had  not  turned  his  head,  and  the  moment 
that  a  startled  "Oh!"  from  Miss  Randolph  told  him 
there  had  been  an  accident  he  put  on  speed,  clearly 
with  the  intention  of  avoiding  a  row.  The  injured 
man  stooped  to  pick  up  a  stone.  At  the  same  instant 
Miss  Randolph,  in  her  most  imperious  manner  (and 
she  can  be  imperious),  commanded  Payne  to  stop 
instantly  and  go  back.  "  But  we  shall  have  the  whole 
pack  of  them  on  us  like  wolves,  "  he  objected.  "Go 
back!"  she  repeated,  stamping  her  little  foot.  "I 
won't  hurt  a  man  and  drive  away.  "  Suddenly  Payne 
pulled  up,  and  putting  in  the  reverse,  we  ran  slowly 
into  the  midst  of  the  horde  of  angry  peasants,  swollen 
now  by  many  others  who  had  been  passing  along  the 
crowded  road. 

As  we  backed  into  that  sea  of  scowling  faces  I 
thought  of  the  various  revolutions  France  has  seen. 
It  was  like  stirring  up  a  wasps'  nest.  Everyone  was 
yelling  at  once.  In  the  front  rank  stood  the  man 
who  had  been  knocked  down,  his  trousers  cut  to 
tatters.  He  had  lashed  himself  into  such  a  fury  that 
he  had  become  almost  incoherent,  and  the  flood  of 
speech  which  rushed  from  his  white  lips  was  more 
like  the  yells  of  an  animal  than  the  ordered  utterance 
of  a  human  being.  By  his  side  were  the  two  women 
who  had  been  in  the  cart,  both  sobbbing  and  scream 
ing,  while  everyone  else  in  the  angry  mob  shouted 
simultaneously.  Aunt  Mary  went  very  pale;  Payne 
looked  upon  his  handiwork  with  a  sulky  grin;  but 
Miss  Randolph  took  the  business  in  hand  with  the 


The  Lightning  Conductor  187 

greatest  pluck.  She  had  whisked  off  her  veil  and 
faced  the  people  boldly,  her  grey  eyes  meeting  theirs, 
her  face  white,  save  for  a  bright  pink  spot  on  either 
cheek.  At  sight  of  her  beauty  the  clamour  died 
down,  and  in  the  lull  she  spoke  to  the  man  who  had 
been  thrown  under  the  horse. 

"I  am  very  sorry  you  are  hurt,"  she  said,  "and 
shall  be  pleased  to  give  you  something  to  buy  your 
self  new  clothes.  Are  you  injured  anywhere? " 

At  the  sound  of  her  correct  but  foreign-sounding 
French  someone  in  the  crowd  shouted  out,  "A  has  les 
Anglais!"  The  girl  drew  herself  up  proudly  and 
looked  in  the  direction  of  the  voice.  She  didn't  try 
to  excuse  herself  by  denying  England  and  claiming 
a  nationality  more  popular  in  France,  and  I  loved  her 
more  than  ever  for  this  reticence. 

"Pay!"  shouted  the  man  who  had  been  hurt,  with 
one  hand  wiping  a  trickle  of  blood  out  of  his  eye, 
with  the  other  thumping  the  mud-guard  of  the  car. 
"Of  course  you  shall  pay.  God  only  knows  what 
injuries  I  have  received.  Mazette  !  I  am  all  one  ache. 
Ah,  you  pay  well,  or  you  do  not  go  on! "  He  pressed 
closer  to  the  car,  and  his  friends  closed  in  around 
him. 

"Pay  them,  Molly  !  pay  anything  they  ask!  '' 
.quavered  Aunt  Mary,  "or  they  will  kill  us!  Oh,  I 
always  knew  something  like  this  was  bound  to  hap 
pen!  What  a  fool  I  was  to  leave  my  peaceful 
home  and  come  to  a  country  of  thieves  and  mur 
derers!" 

"Don't  be  frightened,  Aunt  Mary,"  said  the  girl, 
with  more  patience  for  her  relative's  garrulous  com- 


1 88  The  Lightning  Conductor 

plaints  than  I  had.    Then  she  turned  to  me.   "  Brown, 
is  that  man  much  hurt? "  she  asked  briskly. 

"No,"  I  replied.  "He  is  merely  scratched,  and 
no  doubt  bruised.  If  he  had  any  bones  broken,  any 
internal  injury  or  severe  strain,  he  couldn't  rage 
about  like  a  mad  bull." 

"Still,  it  was  our  fault,"  she  said.  "We  ought  to 
have  stopped.  His  clothes  are  torn.  How  much 
ought  we  to  pay  ? " 

"Nothing  at  all,"  said  Sherlock.  "Don't  you  let 
yourself  be  blackmailed." 

She  didn't  answer  or  look  in  his  direction,  thus 
emphasising  the  fact  that  she  had  asked  her  question 
of  me,  not  of  him. 

"Fifty  francs  would  be  generous,"  I  said,  "to  buy 
the  fellow  a  new  suit  of  clothes  and  pay  for  a  bot 
tle  of  liniment.  With  that  to-morrow  he  would  be 
thanking  his  stars  for  the  accident.  But  as  Mr.  Payne 
was  driving,  hadn't  you  better  let  him  talk  to  them? 
It  isn't  right  that  two  men  should  stand  by  and  let 
the  burden  fall  on  a  lady." 

"  You  speak  to  them,  Brown;  I  give  you  carte 
blanche'1  said  she,  and  we  faced  the  mob  together. 

"If  you  threaten  us,"  I  said,  "you  shall  have 
nothing.  We  were  going  fast,  but  your  horse  is  badly 
broken,  and  is  more  of  a  danger  on  the  road  than  an 
automobile.  If  you  behave  yourself  and  tell  your 
friends  to  do  likewise,  this  lady  wishes  to  give  you 
fifty  francs  to  buy  new  clothes  in  place  of  those  which 
have  suffered  in  this  accident.  But  we  don't  intend 
to  be  bullied." 

"Fifty  francs!"  shrieked  the  man.     "Fifty  francs 


The  Lightning  Conductor  189 

for  a  man's  life!  Bah!  You  aristocrats!  Five  hun 
dred  francs;  not  a  sou  less,  or  you  do  not  stir  from 
this  place.  Fifty  francs!  Mazette!" 

"You  are  talking  nonsense,  and  you  know  it,"  said 
I  roughly.  "Stand  out  of  our  way,  or  we  will  send 
for  the  police." 

Now  this  was  bluff,  for  the  last  thing  to  be  desired 
was  the  presence  of  the  police.  I  had  been  careful 
to  get  in  Paris  the  necessary  permis  de  conduire  from 
the  Department  of  Mines,  without  which  it  is  illegal 
to  drive  a  motor  vehicle  of  any  sort  in  France.  But 
I  had  heard  Payne  boasting  to  Miss  Randolph  that 
he  never  bothered  himself  about  a  lot  of  useless  red 
tape ;  it  was  only  milksops  and  amateurs  who  did 
that.  I,  as  Brown,  had  kept  "my  master's"  papers, 
but  it  would  do  more  harm  than  good  to  our  cause, 
should  it  come  to  an  investigation,  if  I  attempted  to 
pass  over  my  permit  to  Payne.  Were  the  police  to 
appear  on  the  scene  their  first  demand  would  be  for 
papers,  and  if  the  man  who  had  been  driving  were 
unable  to  produce  any,  not  all  our  just  complaints  of 
the  peasants'  unlawful  threats  would  help  us.  Payne 
would  be  liable  to  arrest  and  imprisonment ;  not  only 
would  he  be  heavily  fined,  but  we  should  all  be  de 
tained,  perhaps  for  weeks;  and  as  French  magistrates 
have  as  strong  a  prejudice  against  the  automobile  as 
their  English  brothers,  especially  when  the  offender 
is  a  foreigner,  it  might  go  hard  with  everyone  con 
cerned.  This  would  be  a  dismal  interruption  of  our 
tour,  and  if  I  hadn't  felt  sure  that  the  enemy  would 
be  in  as  great  a  funk  of  the  police  as  we  were,  I 
wouldn't  have  ventured  on  so  bold  a  bluff.  I  trem- 


190  The  Lightning  Conductor 

bled  internally  for  an  instant  as  to  its  success,  but  as 
usual  in  life  and  poker,  it  paid. 

"No,  you  don't!"  shouted  not  the  one  peasant, 
but  many  in  chorus,  as  unlike  the  merry  peasant- 
chorus  of  light  opera  as  you  can  imagine.  "We  won't 
have  the  police.  We  attend  to  this  affair  ourselves." 

And  it  began  to  look  as  if  they  meant  to.  "Give 
the  five  hundred  francs,  or  you  will  be  sorry!"  they 
yelled,  and  again,  in  a  second,  they  were  all  surging 
round  us,  threatening  with  their  fists,  snatching  out 
their  pocket-knives,  and  I  saw  things  were  getting 
hot.  A  French  crowd  barks  a  good  deal  before  it 
bites,  but  this  one  had  come  to  the  biting  stage. 
We  were  far  from  town  and  the  police,  even  if  the 
latter  wouldn't  have  done  us  more  harm  than  good. 
Here  we  had  Miss  Randolph  and  Miss  Kedison.  If 
Payne  were  as  useless  as  I  judged  him,  I  was  one 
man  against  forty. 

The  two  ladies  were  still  on  the  car.  Payne  had 
got  off  at  first,  but  had  slipped  back  when  things 
began  to  be  lively.  I  alone  was  on  the  ground,  close 
to  the  bonnet,  so  that  if  needful  I  could  protect  the 
motor  and  Miss  Randolph  at  the  same  time. 

The  crowd  consulted  an  instant,  then  stampeded 
the  car.  Aunt  Mary  shrieked,  and  threw  out  her 
purse,  as  if  she  flung  a  live  lamb  to  hungry  wolves. 
The  motor  was  going  still,  but  to  charge  into  the 
crowd  might  mean  killing  a  dozen  wretched  peasants. 
It  was  out  of  the  question,  but  something  must  be 
done,  and  now  was  the  moment  for  doing  it.  One 
fellow  tried  to  snatch  a  sable  rug  off  Miss  Kedison 's 
knees;  I  struck  his  hand  away,  and  sent  him  stagger- 


The  Lightning  Conductor  191 

ing.  Then  I  yelled  to  Payne  to  get  into  the  wnneau. 
There  was  no  more  pride  left  in  him  than  in  a  rag, 
and  he  crawled  over,  like  a  dog.  Meanwhile,  I'd 
made  up  my  mind  what  to  do,  and  was  going  to  try 
an  experiment  as  our  best  chance  to  get  out  of  the 
town  without  bloodshed. 

I  knew  that  a  union  which  held  the  exhaust  pipe 
in  place  on  the  silencer  had  been  working  loose.  I 
grabbed  a  spanner  out  of  the  tool-box,  and  elbowing 
my  way  along  the  side  of  the  car  again,  with  two 
turns  of  the  spanner  loosened  the  union,  pushed 
forward  the  throttle-lever  in  the  steering-post,  and 
gave  the  motor  all  its  gas. 

The  thing  was  done  in  a  quarter  the  time  it's  taken 
me  to  write  of  it,  and  you  can  guess  the  effect. 
Bang!  bang!  came  a  succession  of  explosions  quick 
and  pitiless  as  a  Maxim  gun.  Those  peasants  gave 
way  like  wheat  before  the  scythe.  I  don't  doubt 
they  thought  they  were  shot  and  on  the  way  to 
kingdom  come;  and  before  they'd  time  to  find  out 
their  mistake  I  was  up  on  the  step,  had  seized  the 
steering-wheel,  and  started  the  car.  We  were  on  a 
slight  decline,  and  the  good  steed  bounded  forward 
at  the  rate  of  fifteen  miles  an  hour.  An  instant  later 
I  slipped  in  the  fourth,  and  we  were  going  forty-five. 

When  the  enemy  saw  how  they'd  been  tricked, 
which  they  did  in  about  six  seconds,  they  were  after 
us  with  a  howl.  A  shower  of  stones  fell  harmlessly 
on  the  road  behind  iis,  angry  yells  were  drowned  in 
the  hideous  noise  of  the  exhaust.  We  could  afford 
to  laugh  at  the  thought  of  pursuit.  But  there  was 
another  side  to  the  story.  Now  that  there  was  no 


192  The  Lightning  Conductor 

one  on  the  spot  to  complain  of  their  threats  of 
violence,  they  could  safely  apply  to  the  police  and 
make  a  bold  stroke  for  vengeance,  just  as  we  had  for 
escape.  However,  there  was  no  use  in  thinking  of 
that  for  the  moment;  I  had  done  the  best  I  could 
and  must  go  on  doing  it.  No  normal  tympanum 
could  stand  the  racket  of  the  exhaust  for  long,  and 
Miss  Randolph  and  Miss  Kedison  were  sitting  with 
their  hands  over  their  ears,  the  lower  part  of  Aunt 
Mary's  face  under  her  mask  expressing  a  comical 
horror.  I  caught  sight  of  her  visage  when  I  stopped 
the  car  (which  I  did  as  soon  as  we  were  beyond 
danger  of  pursuit)  to  fasten  up  the  silencer  again; 
and  it  was  all  I  could  do  not  to  laugh. 

The  fastening-up  business  was  an  affair  of  two  or 
three  minutes,  and  at  first  the  three  sat  in  shocked 
silence,  their  heads  dazed  by  the  late  ear-splitting 
din.  Then,  the  cool  peace  of  welcome  silence  was 
broken  by  Mr.  Payne.  "I  consider,"  he  said  stiffly 
to  Miss  Randolph,  "that  your  mtcanicieu  has  be 
haved  with  unwarrantable  insolence  in  ordering 
me " 

"And  I  consider  that  he  saved  the  situation,"  cut 
in  the  mtcanicien's  mistress. 

"I  acted  for  what  I  thought  the  best,  miss;  there 
wasn't  much  time  to  decide,"  said  I,  with  a  sleek 
humility  which  I  assume  on  occasions.  "If  I  have 
given  offence,  I  am  sorry,"  I  went  on,  looking  at  her 
and  not  at  Payne. 

"You  haven't  given  offence,"  she  said.  "I  am 
sure  Mr.  Payne,  when  he  comes  to  reflect,  will  see 
that  you  did  yeoman's  service.  But  what  is  to 


The  Lightning  Conductor  193 

happen  now?  I  suppose  we're  not  safe  from  trouble 
yet,  and  we  don't  deserve  to  be." 

I  thought  it  rather  sporting  of  her  to  say  "we," 
when  all  the  bother  was  due  to  the  conceit  and  cock- 
sureness  of  one  person. 

"  No,  miss,  we  don't  deserve  to  be,  if  you'll  excuse 
the  liberty,"  I  meekly  replied.  "We  had  no  business 
charging  along  a  crowded  road  the  way  we  did.  I'm 
sure,  until  to-day,  we've  never  had  anything  but 
courtesy  from  people  of  all  classes.  It  isn't  often 
French  peasants  misbehave  themselves,  and  to-day 
most  of  the  wrong  was  on  our  side,  though  it's  true 
that  their  horse  was  skittish;  and  being  market-day, 
I  daresay  they'd  taken  a  little  more  red  wine  than 
was  good  for  them.  The  wine  of  this  country  is  apt 
to  go  to  the  head." 

I  spoke  to  Miss  Randolph,  but  at  Jimmy,  especially 
when  I  gave  that  dig  about  the  wine.  I  finished  my 
tirade  and  my  work  on  the  silencer  at  the  same 
time,  and  it  was  then  that  my  triumph  came.  In 
stead  of  getting  back  on  the  car,  I  stood  still  in  the 
road. 

"  What  are  you  waiting  for? "  asked  Miss  Randolph. 

"For  Mr.  Payne  to  take  his  place  in  the  driver's 
seat,"  said  I. 

At  this  he  half  jumped  up  in  the  tonneau,  but  Misg 
Randolph  hurriedly  exclaimed,  "Oh,  I  think  you 
had  better  drive  for  a  while,  Brown.  I  want  to  talk 
to  you,  and  ask  you  what  to  do,  and  what  will  happen 
next."  Little  Lord  Fauntleroy,  with  every  Sher- 
lockian  characteristic  temporarily  obliterated,  sat 
down  again  in  the  tonneau  pouting. 


194  The  Lightning  Conductor 

We  had  not  wasted  five  minutes,  and  now  we 
sprang  forward  at  a  good  speed  for  Carcassonne. 

"What  will  happen  next,"  I  said,  answering  Miss 
Randolph's  question,  "may  be  this.  If  the  peasants 
are  angry  enough  to  take  the  trouble  and  risk,  all 
they  have  to  do  is  to  go  to  the  police-station  in  the 
nearest  village  and  give  information  against  us,  when  a 
wire  with  a  description  of  us  and  the  car  will  raise  the 
whole  country  so  that  we  shall  not  be  safe  anywhere." 

"Oh,  my  gracious!"  the  poor  child  exclaimed. 
J'What  are  we  to  do?  Aunt  Mary  and  I  have  other 
hats  and  jackets  and  things  in  our  car-luggage. 
Couldn't  we  change,  so  as  to  look  quite  different, 
and  buy  a  lot  of — of  Aspinall,  or  something  in  the 
next  village  before  they've  had  time  to  give  the 
alarm,  and  paint  the  poor  car  a  bright  scarlet  ?  Then 
we  should  get  through  and  no  one  would  know." 

I  couldn't  help  laughing,  though  really  her  sug 
gestion  wasn't  so  fantastic  as  it  may  sound,  for  I 
know  a  man  who  did  that  very  trick  in  somewhat 
similar  circumstances;  but  her  earnestness  combined 
with  the  childlike  guile  on  her  face  was  comic. 

"  It  would  be  too  long  a  job  to  paint  the  car  before 
we  could  be  spotted,"  I  said.  "I  think  we  must 
just  hope  for  the  best,  and  show  a  bold  face.  I 
shouldn't  be  surprised  if  we'd  get  through  all  right 
somehow.  Perhaps,  if  there  was  much  money  in 
your  aunt's  purse,  miss,  the  peasants  would  prefer 
keeping  their  mouths  shut  and  sticking  to  that  than 
mixing  themselves  up  with  the  police  and  perhaps 
losing  what  they  might  have  had,  like  the  dog  with 
his  meat  in  the  fable." 


The  Lightning  Conductor  195 

"  There  were  about  a  hundred  francs  in  my  purse," 
announced  Aunt  Mary. 

"  If  they  do  catch  us,  what  then? "  the  girl  asked. 

I  explained  the  state  of  the  case  as  I  had  argued 
it  out  to  myself. 

"Oh,  well,"  sighed  Miss  Randolph,  " I  suppose  we 
can't  do  better  than  take  your  advice,  but  this  isn't 
a  nice  adventure.  I  do  hate  feeling  guilty — like  an 
escaping  criminal,  with  every  hand  against  me. 
And  I  loathe  suspense;  I  always  want  to  know  the 
worst.  When  shall  we  be  sure  what  the  peasants 
have  made  up  their  minds  to  do? " 

"Well,"  I  said,  "in  less  than  an  hour,  if  all  goes 
well,  we  ought  to  be  at  the  octroi  station  outside 
Carcassonne,  and  if  we  are  '  wanted '  by  the  police  we 
shall  know  it  fast  enough,  because  they  will — er — 
try  to  stop  us  there." 

"Then  I  hope  all  won't  go  well,"  moaned  Miss 
Randolph.  She  who  had  been  so  brave  when  forty 
peasants  threatened  us  with  words,  stones,  and  even 
knives,  was  crushed  under  the  vague  menace  of  the 
law.  "If  only  we  could  arrive  after  dark  we  might 
flash  through  before  the  octroi  people  knew.  Let's 
arrive  after  dark,"  she  exclaimed  eagerly.  "It's 
getting  on  towards  four  now.  Let's  stop — since 
we've  been  perfectly  certain  for  ages  that  no  one  was 
attempting  to  follow  us — and — and  deliberately  have 
tea  by  the  roadside,  If  we  do  that  we  can  easily 
pass  the  time,  so  as  not  to  arrive  at  the  octroi  until 
half-past  five,  when  it  will  be  dark.  It's  moonlight, 
but  the  moon  doesn't  rise  now  till  six  or  after." 
"We  could  do  that  certainly,"  I  said,  "and  we 


196  The  Lightning  Conductor 

might  get  through  without  being  nabbed.  If  we 
succeed,  we  might  rush  on  through  Carcassonne, 
instead  of  stopping  there  to-night;  for  the  farther 
away  we  get  and  the  more  towns  we  can  say  we've 
passed  through  without  being  detained,  the  better 
for  our  chances  of  ultimate  escape." 

"But  I  don't  want  to  miss  Carcassonne,"  she  ob 
jected.  "You've  told  me  so  much  about  the  place 
that  I've  been  looking  forward  to  it  more  than  to 
almost  anything  else." 

So  had  I,  if  the  truth  were  known,  but  I  had  looked 
forward  to  visiting  Carcassonne  with  her  before  I 
had  "drunk  and  seen  the  spider."  In  other  words, 
before  Mr.  Payne  had  joined  our  party.  However, 
I  couldn't  bear  to  have  her  disappointed,  for  his  fault* 
too;  besides,  I'm  vain  enough  to  like  hearing  from 
her  lips  the  flattering  words,  "Brown,  you  are  so 
resourceful!"  Therefore  I  stirred  up  my  brains  in 
the  effort  to  be  resourceful  now. 

"We  might  hide  the  car  in  Carcassonne  if  we  could 
once  get  in,"  I  mysteriously  suggested;  "then  you 
could  steal  up  on  foot  to  the  citt  by  moonlight,  and 
when  you'd  had  your  fill  of  sight-seeing  steal  back  to 
the  car  again  and  make  a  rush  for  it." 

"Splendid!"  cried  Miss  Randolph,  clapping  her 
hands.  Behold,  I  had  made  a  hit! 

The  car  was  stopped,  the  tea-basket  got  out,  and 
who  so  indispensable  as  the  late  despised  Brown? 
B  :own  it  was  who  went  to  a  cottage  hard  by  and 
procured  drinking-water,  since,  not  expecting  to  stop, 
we  had  come  out  unprovided.  Brown  it  was  who 
saved  the  methylated  spirit  from  upsetting,  and 


The  Lightning  Conductor  197 

Brown  was  rewarded  presently  with  an  excellent 
cup  of  tea,  into  which  Miss  Randolph  had  dropped 
two  lumps  of  sugar  with  her  own  blessed  little  pink- 
tipped  fingers.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  in  ordinary 
circumstances  sugar  in  tea  is  medicinal  to  my  taste; 
but  when  that  angel  sat  with  a  lump  between  her 
fingers  asking  how  many  I  would  have,  though  she 
had  just  let  Jimmy  Sherlock  put  in  his  own,  I  would 
have  said  half  a  dozen,  if  that  would  have  left  any 
over  for  her.  And  if  the  taste  was  medicinal,  why, 
it  had  a  curative  effect  on  my  injured  feelings.  r 

Refreshed,  invigorated  by  more  than  tea,  I  felt 
ready  for  anything.  Darkness  was  falling,  but  I 
didn't  light  the  lamps.  The  road  was  empty,  a  torch 
of  dusky  red  blazing  along  the  west.  We  started, 
going  cautiously;  our  tongues  silent,  our  eyes  alert. 
By-and-by,  from  afar  off,  we  caught  the  twinkle  of 
low-set,  yellow  lights.  We  were  coming  to  the 
neighbourhood  of  the  octroi.  Luckily  it  was  cold; 
the  door  and  windows  of  the  house  would  certainly 
be  shut,  unless  the  men  were  engaged  in  transacting 
business  in  the  road.  I  now  hurriedly  explained  to 
Miss  Randolph  the  exact  method  I  meant  to  adopt, 
and  the  word  was  passed  round  to  be  "mum. "  While 
the  tea-things  were  being  packed  away,  a  short  time 
ago,  I  had  well  oiled  the  wheels  and  chains;  the 
car  moved  as  silently  as  a  bat,  except  for  the  chuff! 
chuff!  of  the  motor.  About  a  hundred  yards  from 
the  lights  I  put  on  speed,  and  when  we  had  begun 
to  scud  along  like  a  ship  with  all  sails  set,  I  took  out 
the  clutch  and  let  the  motor  run  free.  By  this  time 
we  were  within  thirty  yards  of  a  building  which  I 


198  The  Lightning  Conductor 

now  felt  certain  was  the  octroi.  The  car,  which  had 
been  going  extremely  fast,  dashed  on,  coasting  past 
the  little  lighted  house  by  its  own  impetus.  Not  a 
sound,  not  a  creak  of  a  wheel,  not  the  grating  of  a 
chain. 

On  we  sped  for  full  forty  yards  past  the  octroi 
before  we  lost  speed,  and  I  had  to  slip  in  the  clutch. 

"Oh,  Brown!"  breathed  my  Goddess  ecstatically. 
Just  that,  and  no  more.  But  if  I  had  been  Jack 
Winston  and  asked  her  to  marry  me  at  this  moment, 
I  believe  she  would  have  said  "yes,"  in  sheer  exuber 
ance  of  grateful  bliss. 

So  far,  so  good,  but  we  were  not  yet  out  of  the 
wood.  We  drove  quietly  on  into  the  town,  expecting 
every  moment  to  be  challenged  for  not  lighting  our 
lamps,  though  we  were  within  our  rights,  really,  dark 
as  it  was,  for  it  was  not  yet  an  hour  after  sunset. 
But  nothing  happened ;  not  even  a  dog  barked.  We 
crossed  the  high  bridge  spanning  the  Aude,  and  the 
old  citi,  which  we  had  come  to  see,  loomed  black 
against  the  dusky  sky.  No  one  molested  us;  no 
fiery  gendarme  leaped  from  the  shadows  commanding 
us  to  stop.  My  small  trumps  were  taking  all  the 
tricks,  but  I  had  a  big  one  still  in  my  hand.  We 
were  now — having  crossed  the  bridge  and  left  the  new 
town  behind  us — in  a  comparatively  deserted  region. 

"My  idea,"  I  said  quietly  to  Miss  Randolph,  "is  to 
drive  the  car  into  some  dark,  back  street,  far  from  the 
ken  of  the  gendarme.  It  is  six  o'clock.  People  are 
sitting  down  to  dinner.  That  is  in  our  favour. 
I  shall,  if  possible,  find  a  place  where  the  car  may 
stand  for  several  hours  without  being  remarked, 


The  Lightning  Conductor  199 

while  your  visit  is  paid  to  the  cits.  Here,  now,  is 
the  very  place!"  I  broke  short  my  disquisition  to 
remark;  for  as  I  elaborated  my  plan,  driving  very 
slowly,  we  had  arrived  before  a  dingy  mews  with 
a  waggon  standing,  shafts  down,  on  the  cobbles. 
I  turned  in  and  stopped  both  car  and  motor. 

"This  shelter  might  have  been  made  for  us, "  I  said, 
beginning  to  find  a  good  deal  of  pleasure  in  the 
situation.  "The  only  difficulty  is"  (out  with  my 
big  trump)  "that  of  course  someone  must  stay  with 
the  car.  It  is  my  place,  miss,  to  do  so.  But,  unfortu 
nately,  it  is  after  hours  for  showing  the  ramparts,  the 
interior  of  the  towers,  the  dungeons,  and  so  on,  which 
are  really  the  attractions  of  the  wonderful,  old  restored 
mediaeval  city.  I  have  been  here  before.  I  know 
the  gardien,  and  might,  if  I  were  in  the  party,  induce 
him  to  make  an  exception  in  your  favour.  Still,  as 
it  is,  the  best  I  can  do  will  be  to  write  a  note  and  ask 
him  to  take  you  through.  " 

Jimmy  laughed,  or  I  should  say,  chortled.  "  I  should 
think  a  banknote  would  appeal  to  the  gardien' s  intel 
ligence  better  than  any  other  kind,"  said  he,  "and 
I  will  see  that  he  gets  it. " 

"I  advise  you  not  to  do  that,  sir,"  I  remarked 
quietly.  "The  gardien  here  isn't  that  sort  of  man 
at  all.  He  would  be  mortally  offended  if  you  tried 
to  bribe  him,  and  would  certainly  refuse  to  do  any 
thing  for  you." 

"I'm  sure  a  letter  would  be  of  very  little  use, "  said 
Miss  Randolph.  "I  think  we  must  manage  to  have 
you  with  us  somehow,  Brown.  Couldn't  we  hire 
a  man  to  look  after  the  car  ? " 


2OO  The  Lightning  Conductor 

"I  shouldn't  like  to  take  the  risk,"  said  I.  "And 
remember,  miss,  we  are  in  hiding. " 

"  /  don't  want  to  see  the  old  thing, "  protested  Aunt 
Mary.  "I've  gone  through  so  much  to-day  I  feel 
a  thousand  years  old.  I'm  not  going  to  climb  any 
hills  or  see  any  sights.  I  want  my  dinner. " 

"I  think  we'd  better  get  on,"  advised  Sherlock. 
"Not  much  fun  poking  about  in  a  lot  of  old  ruins  in 
the  dark." 

"They're  not  ruins,  and  it  isn't  dark,"  said  Miss 
Randolph.  "Look  at  the  sky!  The  moon's  coming 
up  this  minute.  If  you  don't  want  to  see  the  citt, 
Jimmy,  you  might  just  as  well  sit  here  in  the  car  while 
the  rest  of  us  go." 

"I  shall  sit  with  him,"  announced  Aunt  Mary. 
"And  if  you  must  go  on  this  wild  goose  chase,  do 
for  pity's  sake  hurry  back,  or  we  shall  be  frozen. " 

I  began  to  fear  that  the  scheme  would  fall  through, 
with  so  much  against  it,  but  Miss  Randolph  kept  to 
her  resolution  despite  the  moving  picture  of  her  rela 
tive's  suffering. 

"  Oh  yes,  we  will  hurry  back.  We  shan't  be  long, " 
she  said  cheerfully,  "we  "  meaning  herself  and  her 
courier  mtcanicien.  "You  can't  be  cold  in  your  furs; 
it's  very  early  yet;  you  had  a  good  tea;  and  Brown 
and  I  will  whisk  you  off  to  some  dear  little  village 
inn  in  time  for  an  eight  o'clock  dinner." 

I  knew  we  should  do  nothing  of  the  kind,  but 
mine  not  to  reason  why,  mine  but  to  do  or  die — with 
her. 

I  daresay,  my  dear  Montie,  that  even  to  you 
"Carcassonne"  expresses  nothing  in  particular.  To 


The  Lightning  Conductor  201 

those  who  have  been  there  the  name  must,  I  think, 
always  bring  with  it  an  imperishable  recollection. 
Carcassonne  is  one  of  the  unique  places  of  the  world. 
Years  ago — as  far  back  as  the  Romans,  probably 
much  further — there  was  a  fortress  on  this  hill,  which 
commanded  one  of  the  chief  roads  into  Spain.  After 
wards  it  was  used  by  the  Visigoths,  and  in  the  Middle 
Ages  it  reached  its  highest  importance  under  St.  Louis. 
Then  gradually  it  sank  again  into  insignificance,  and 
early  last  century  there  was  a  proposal  that  the 
ruins  should  be  destroyed.  By  this  time  hardly 
anyone  lived  in  the  old  city  on  the  hill,  a  new  and 
flourishing  modern  town  (laid  out  in  parallelograms) 
having  sprung  up  in  the  plain.  The  demolition 
of  the  ancient  ruins  was  prevented  by  one  Cros- 
Mayrevieille,  a  native  of  Carcassonne,  who  succeeded 
in  whipping  up  such  enthusiasm  on  behalf  of  his 
birthplace  that  the  city  was  made  into  a  monument 
historique,  and  money  was  granted  for  its  complete 
reconstruction  by  Viollet  le  Due.  A  large  sum  has 
been  spent,  great  works  have  been  carried  out,  and 
the  result  is  one  of  the  most  extraordinary  feats  of 
restoration  in  the  history  of  the  world. 

From  afar  off  this  city  upon  a  hill  makes  a  vivid 
appeal  to  the  imagination.  Its  great  assemblage  of 
towers,  walls,  and  battlements,  rising  clear-cut  and 
majestic  against  the  sky,  suggests  at  the  first  glimpse 
one  of  those  imaginary  mediaeval  cities  that  Dor6 
loved  to  draw  as  illustrations  to  the  Conies  Drola- 
tiques.  So  extraordinary  is  the  apparition  of  this 
ancient,  silent,  fortified  city  existing  in  the  midst  of 
the  railway  epoch  that  one  is  tempted  to  think  it 


2O2  The  Lightning  Conductor 

a  mirage,  some  strange  trick  of  the  senses,  which,  on 
rubbing  the  eyes,  must  disappear.  And  the  nearer 
one  draws,  the  more  vivid  does  this  impression 
become.  Everything  perfect,  marvellously  perfect, 
yet  with  no  jarring  hint  of  newness.  It  is  well-nigh 
impossible  at  any  time  to  tell  where  the  original 
structure  ends  and  where  Viollet  le  Due's  restoration 
begins,  and  on  what  a  grand  scale  it  all  is. 

By  moonlight  the  effect  was  really  glorious.  My 
Goddess  and  I  walked  over  a  drawbridge  and  entered 
the  silent,  grass-grown  streets  of  the  old,  old  city, 
where  quaint  and  ancient  houses,  given  up  now  to 
the  poor,  huddle  under  the  protecting  walls  of  the 
great  fortress.  We  were  in  a  perfect  mediaeval  city, 
just  as  it  existed  in  the  time  of  the  Crusades.  In 
thus  exactly  realising  the  life  of  a  garrisoned  fortress 
of  those  stirring  days,  I  found  much  the  same  dra 
matic  interest  I  feel  on  stepping  into  the  silent 
streets  of  Pompeii,  where  the  ghosts  seem  more  real 
than  I. 

We  stopped  at  the  house  of  the  gardien,  and  I 
made  an  excuse  for  leaving  Miss  Randolph  at  a 
little  distance,  as  I  talked  to  him,  reminded  him  of 
my  last  visit,  and  begged  that,  as  a  favour,  he  would 
show  us  about,  although  it  was  now  "after  hours." 
He  is  a  very  good  fellow,  courteous  and  intelligent, 
speaking  with  the  noticeably  distinct  enunciation 
which  seems  to  be  the  mark  of  all  these  guardians 
of  monuments  historiques  in  France;  and  when  he 
understood  that  there  was  a  lady  in  the  case,  he 
readily  consented  to  oblige,  though  I  suspect  he  left 
his  supper  in  the  midst.  He  took  off  his  cap  to 


The  Lightning  Conductor  203 

Miss  Randolph's  beauty,  etherealised  by  the  moon's 
magic,  and  we  all  three  started  on  our  expedition. 
We  were  conducted  into  huge,  round  towers  and 
out  upon  lofty,  commanding  battlements,  whence  we 
could  gaze  through  a  haze  of  moonlight  over  a  great 
svveep  of  country,  with  here  and  there  the  sparkle 
of  a  winding  river,  like  a  diamond  necklace  flung 
down  carelessly  on  a  purple  cushion.  Our  guide 
conscientiously  pointed  out  the  stations  of  the 
sentries  and  the  guards,  the  disposition  of  the  towers 
for  mutual  defence  (each  a  bowshot  from  the  other), 
the  sally-ports,  the  secret  passages  communicating 
with  underground  tunnels  for  revictualling  the  city 
in  time  of  siege;  and  so  realistic  were  our  surround 
ings  that  I  fancied  Miss  Randolph  once  or  twice 
actually  caught  herself  listening  in  vain  for  the 
tramp  of  mailed  feet,  the  hoarse  word  of  command. 
At  all  events,  I'm  sure  she  forgot  for  the  time  being 
all  about  Aunt  Mary  and  Jimmy  Payne  waiting  in 
the  car,  and  I  didn't  think  it  incumbent  upon  me 
to  remind  her  of  their  existence  or  necessities.  We 
lingered  long  enough  in  the  splendid  region  of  towers, 
battlements,  and  ramparts  to  do  them  full  justice. 
Then,  when  I  had  slipped  something  of  no  impor 
tance  into  the  gardien's  hand,  we  reluctantly  de 
parted,  often  looking  back  as  we  went  down  the 
hill.  As  We  left  the  old  city  we  did  not  leave  it 
alone.  A  group  of  young  men  and  women  of  a 
humble  class  were  hurrying  down  just  before  us  on 
their  way  to  the  new  town.  We  were  so  near  that 
we  couldn't  help  overhearing  their  eager  talk  of 
a  spectacle  they  were  on  their  way  to  see,  and  judg- 


204  The  Lightning  Conductor 

ing  from  the  fragments  we  caught,  this  was  to  be 
a  kind  of  Passion  Play.  Although  I  had  been  at 
Carcassonne  before,  I  didn't  know  that  such  a  thing 
existed  in  France,  or,  indeed,  outside  Oberammergau 
and  a  few  villages  in  the  Tyrol.  Miss  Randolph 
questioned  me  about  it,  but  I  could  tell  her  nothing, 
and  she  exclaimed  rather  shamefacedly,  "Oh,  how 
I  should  love  to  go! " 

"Would  you  let  me  take  you  there,  just  to  look  on 
for  a  few  minutes,  miss?  "  I  doubtfully  asked. 

"  I  should  like  it  above  anything,"  said  she.  "  Only 
— we've  already  kept  those  poor  people  waiting  too 
long,  I'm  afraid." 

"This  needn't  keep  them  very  much  longer,"  said 
I,  "and  it  may  be  the  last  chance  you  will  ever  have 
of  seeing  such  a  thing." 

"Oh,  well,  I  can't  resist,"  she  cried.  "We'll  go— 
and  I'll  take  the  scolding  afterwards." 

We  did  go,  following  our  leaders  until  we  came 
to  a  good-sized  booth  with  a  crowd  round  it.  The 
admission  was  twopence  each,  but  the  best  seats  cost 
a  franc.  We  went  in  and  found  ourselves  in  a  long, 
canvas  room,  with  sloping  seats  and  a  small  stage  at 
one  end  lighted  by  oil  lamps. 

The  place  was  dreadfully  hot,  and  smelled  strongly 
of  humanity.  Presently  a  bell  rang;  there  was 
solemn  music  on  a  tinkling  piano  and  a  young 
actor,  bare-faced  and  dressed  in  a  white  classical 
dress,  took  his  place  near  the  stage,  beginning  to 
recite  in  a  clear,  sympathetic  voice.  He  was  the 
choragus,  explaining  to  us  what  was  to  happen  in< 
the  play.  The  curtain  went  up,  to  reveal  a  tableau 


The  Lightning  Conductor  205 

of  Adam  and  Eve  in  very  palpable  flesh  tights,  with 
garlands  of  fig  leaves  festooned  about  their  bodies. 

Adam,  with  an  elaborate  false  beard,  slept  under 
a  tree.  Then  to  the  accompaniment  of  the  choragus' 
explanation  a  mechanical  snake  appeared  in  the 
branches  with  an  apple  in  its  mouth.  An  unseen 
person  off  the  stage  made  the  snake  twist  and  writhe. 
Eve  put  out  her  hand,  took  the  apple,  and  ate  a  bit. 
Adam  waking,  she  pointed  to  the  tree  and  to  the  fruit, 
offering  him  a  piece.  He  demurred  in  pantomime, 
but  accepted  and  swallowed  what  was  left  of  the 
apple.  Instantly  there  appeared  at  the  wing  an 
angel  with  a  long,  flaxen  wig,  who  threatened  the 
guilty  pair  with  a  tinsel  sword.  They  cowered,  and 
then  shading  their  eyes  with  their  hands,  were  walk 
ing  sadly  away  when  the  curtain  fell.  It  was  tableau 
number  one,  showing  the  fall  of  man. 

The  audience  on  the  whole  received  the  exhibition 
with  devotional  reverence,  but  a  knot  of  young  men 
openly  tittered  and  jeered,  commenting  satirically 
upon  the  deficiencies  in  the  stage  management. 
Then,  with  more  music,  began  the  scenes  from  the 
New  Testament.  One  was  rather  pretty,  introducing 
the  woman  at  the  well,  Christ  being  impersonated  by 
a  sweet-faced  young  man  in  white,  with  a  light  brown 
wig  and  beard.  The  girl  who  played  the  Virgin  was 
not  more  than  twenty,  and  had  a  serene  prettiness, 
with  an  air  of  grave  modesty,  which  were  very  at 
tractive.  She  wore  her  own  long  hair  falling  like  a 
mantle  over  her  dark  dress  as  far  down  as  the  knees. 

Each  scene  lasted  perhaps  five  minutes,  the  char 
acters  on  the  stage  speaking  no  word,  but  opening 


2o6  The  Lightning  Conductor 

their  mouths  and  moving  their  bodies  in  time  with 
the  recitation  of  the  choragus.  We  had  the  betrayal 
in  the  garden,  the  trial  before  Pilate,  the  scourging 
the  crucifixion,  and  the  resurrection,  all  given  with 
feeling  and  surprising  dignity,  and  in  the  crucifixion 
scene,  with  pathos.  Most  of  the  women  in  the 
audience  were  in  tears,  their  compassion  spending 
itself  noticeably  more  upon  the  Virgin's  sorrow  than 
upon  her  Son's  agony;  and  all  through  the  repre 
sentation  the  same  irreverent  knot  of  scoffers  con 
tinued  to  laugh,  to  whistle,  to  mimic.  From  many 
parts  of  the  tent  there  were  indignant  cries  of 
"Shame!"  and  "Silence!"  but  the  disturbers  went 
on  to  the  end,  quite  regardless  of  good  taste  and  the 
pious  feelings  of  the  majority. 

I  heard  whispers  which  informed  us  that  this 
company  of  players  had  no  repertoire;  such  a  thing 
they  would  have  considered  sacrilegious,  but  they 
travelled  all  over  France  in  caravans,  carrying  their 
own  scenery  and  costumes.  We  dared  not  stay  till 
the  very  end  of  the  performance,  but  had  to  get  up 
and  steal  quietly  out,  with  Aunt  Mary  heavy  on  our 
consciences. 

I  believe  poor  little  Miss  Randolph  really  was 
afraid  of  that  scolding  she  had  prophesied.  But 
behold,  vice  was  its  own  reward,  and  the  enemy  was 
delivered  into  our  hands.  We  arrived  at  the  mews, 
and  there  was  the  car;  but  there  was  not  Aunt  Mary 
nor  yet  Sherlock- Fauntleroy.  In  their  place,  curled 
up  in  the  tonneau,  reclined  a  callow  French  youth, 
comfortably  snoozing,  with  his  coat- collar  turned  up 
to  his  ears.  We  roused  him,  learned  that  he  had 


The  Lightning  Conductor  207 

been  caught  en  passant  and  hired  at  the  rate  of  two 
francs  an  hour  to  await  the  return  of  a  lady  and 
gentleman;  also  that  he  had  been  in  his  present 
position  for  nearly  an  hour.  One  lady  and  gentle 
man  seemed  to  his  mind  as  good  as  another,  for  when 
offered  a  five-franc  piece  he  showed  no  hesitation  in 
delivering  up  his  charge  to  us,  although,  for  all  he 
could  tell,  we  might  have  been  the  rankest  of  rank 
impostors.  After  the  departure  of  this  faithless 
guardian,  Miss  Randolph  and  I  sat  enthroned  in  the 
car  for  some  twenty  minutes  before  Aunt  Mary  and 
Jimmy  came  speeding  round  the  corner  of  the  mews. 
They  brought  with  them  an  atmosphere  of  warmth 
and  good  cheer,  and  at  first  sniff  it  was  evident  that 
they  had  dined  where  dining  in  both  solid  and  liquid 
branches  was  a  fine  art. 

In  my  part  of  servant  I  was  not  "on"  in  the 
ensuing  comedy;  but  I  listened  "in  the  wings,"  and 
chuckled  inwardly.  Well  did  Miss  Randolph  fill  the 
role  of  injured  virtue  which  she  had  taken  up  at  such 
short  notice.  Her  surprise  that  Aunt  Mary  and 
Timmy  could  have  been  capable  of  betraying  her 
trust  in  them,  that  they  should  have  gone  off  and 
left  a  valuable  car,  which  wasn't  even  hers,  to  the 
tender  mercies  of  a  stupid  little  boy,  a  perfect 
stranger,  was  bravely  done.  It  was  represented  as 
a  miracle  that  the  Napier  and  everything  in  it  had 
not  been  stolen  during  their  absence;  and  the  good 
dinner  the  culprits  had  enjoyed  at  the  neighbouring 
hotel  could  not  fortify  them  against  the  blighting 
sense  of  their  own  depravity  so  vividly  brought  home. 

Not  a  reproach  for  us ;  all  the  wind  had  been  taken 


2o8  The  Lightning  Conductor 

out  of  their  sails.  A  sadder  and  wiser  Jimmy  and 
Aunt  Mary  meekly  allowed  themselves  to  be  driven 
on  through  the  cold  moonlight,  with  distant  gleams 
of  towered  towns,  to  Narbonne,  where  I  am  writing 
to  you,  after  having  dined  and  cleaned  the  car. 
Our  hotel  is  not  an  ideal  one;  yet  on  my  hard  pillow 
my  head,  I  ween,  will  lie  easier  than  on  a  downy  one 
last  night.  We  arrived  late,  and  will  leave  early, 
to  lessen  the  chances  of  being  pounced  upon  by  the 
clutches  of  the  law.  But  I  begin  to  hope  that,  after 
all,  those  peasants  decided  to  let  well  alone,  and  that 
we  shall  escape  scatheless. 

When  I  was  a  little  boy  we  used  to  have  honey 
in  red-brown  earthenware  pots  labelled  ''Finest 
Narbonne  Honey,"  and  for  years  the  place  figured 
in  my  imagination  as  a  smiling  region  of  brilliant 
flowers.  But  the  disillusioning  reality  is  a  dusty, 
rather  noisy,  very  commercial  town,  paved  with 
stones  the  most  abominable;  and  between  Carcas 
sonne  and  here  the  roads  grow  more  abominable 
with  every  kilometre.  I  am  tired,  but  not  unhappy; 
and  so,  good  night. 

Your  fraudulent  friend, 

BROWN- WINSTON. 


JACK  WINSTON  TO  LORD  LANE 

HOTEL  DU  LOUVRE,  MARSEILLES, 

December  18. 
My  dear  Montie, 

We  have  just  been  passing  through  some  of 
the  most  interesting  parts  of  France,  therefore  in  the 
world,  and  I  have  derived  a  certain  rarefied  enjoy 
ment  from  it  all,  as  I  should  have  been  only  half  a 
man  not  to  do.  But  Brown  stock  has  gone  down  a 
little  since  Carcassonne,  why,  I  know  not,  though  I 
suspect;  and  there  is  depression,  if  not  panic  in  the 
market.  Jimmy,  having  made  his  peace  and  prom 
ised  caution,  has  again  been  promoted  to  the  post  of 
driver,  and  from  the  Jehu  point  of  view  I  must 
confess  that  during  a  large  part  of  the  journey  he 
has  covered  himself  with  as  much  credit  as  dust. 
This  is  saying  a  good  deal,  for,  owing  to  the  slight 
rainfalls  in  these  southern  departments,  the  roads  are 
often  buried  inches  deep  under  a  coating  of  grey, 
pungent  dust,  enveloping  all  passing  vehicles  in  a 
noisome  cloud.  They  have  also,  set  in  their  surface 
at  irregular  intervals,  large  pans  or  dishes  with  per 
pendicular  walls  from  an  inch  to  three  inches  in 
depth.  These  dishes  being  concealed  by  the  all- 
pervading  dust,  it  is  impossible — at  least  for  a  Jimmy 

209 


2io  The  Lightning  Conductor 

Payne — to  know  where  they  are  until  the  wheels 
bump  into  them.  Sometimes  one  of  our  wheels 
would  drop  in,  sometimes  all  four.  You  may  imagine 
the  strain  of  this  sort  of  work  upon  the  tyres,  frame, 
and  springs.  But  in  a  whole  day's  run  of  a  hundred 
and  thirty  miles  we  punctured  only  one  tyre,  which  I 
mended  in  fifteen  minutes. 

Beziers,  seen  from  a  distance,  set  strikingly  upon  a 
hill,  looked  an  imposing  town,  but  turned  out  to  be 
an  ordinary  and  dirty  place  when  we  came  to  ascend 
its  long,  winding  streets.  Beyond,  we  ran  for  a  while 
along  the  edge  of  a  great  lagoon,  and  knew,  though 
we  could  not  see  it,  that  the  Mediterranean  lay  close 
at  our  right  hand. 

At  Montpellier  we  did  not  stop,  and  I  delivered 
no  lecture  on  the  subject  of  the  gorgeous,  all-conquer 
ing  Duchess,  as  I  might  have  been  tempted  to  do  if 
we'd  had  no  addition  to  our  party.  It's  a  large,  bright, 
and  stately  town,  very  liveable-looking;  but  nothing 
was  said  about  lingering,  though  there  are  some 
things  worth  seeing.  We  had  an  impressive  en 
trance  into  the  ancient  city  of  Nimes,  running  in  by 
early  moonlight,  across  a  great,  open  plain,  under  a 
spacious,  purpling  dome  of  sky,  the  sun  dying  in 
carmine  behind  us,  the  evening  star  a  big,  flashing 
diamond  in  the  moon-paled  east.  The  old  Roman 
amphitheatre  stood  up  darkly  and  nobly  in  the  silver 
twilight;  but  we  passed  on  to  our  hotel,  the  pro 
gramme  evidently  being  to  satisfy  the  senses  at  the 
expense  of  the  soul.  They  do  one  very  well  at  the 
hotel  in  Nimes,  but  I  looked  forward  hopefully  to  a 
request  to  play  courier  among  the  sights  of  the  dear 


The  Lightning  Conductor  211 

old  town  next  morning.  It  did  not  come,  however. 
The  two  ladies  went  forth  with  Jimmy,  and  as  I  saw 
them  go  I  could  but  acknowledge  my  rival  to  be  a 
personable  fellow.  Sherlock  Holmes  and  Little  Lord 
Fauntleroy  were  both  personable  fellows  in  their 
way,  and  it  is  useless  to  deny  Jimmy's  possession  of 
the  picked  attributes  of  each. 

For  some  reason  the  word  seems  to  have  gone 
forth  that  we  are  to  hurry  on  to  Cannes.  In  the 
circumstances  I  am  inclined  to  change  my  mind, 
and  instead  of  wishing  my  dear  mother  to  have 
departed  before  our  arrival,  I'm  not  sure  it  wouldn't 
be  wiser  to  hope  that  she'll  still  be  there.  Miss 
Randolph  "hasn't  decided  what  she'll  do  after  reach 
ing  the  Riviera."  I  can't  help  feeling  that  Jimmy 
Sherlock  has  succeeded  in  getting  in  some  deadly 
work  of  a  mysterious  nature.  It's  on  the  cards  that 
I  may  find  at  Cannes  or  Nice  that  the  trip  is  fin 
ished,  and  Brown  is  finished  too.  Then,  as  I  can't 
and  won't  part  from  my  Goddess  without  a  Titanic 
struggle,  I  might  find  it  convenient  to  tell  my  mother 
all,  throw  myself  on  her  mercy,  and  get  her  to  inter 
cede  with  Miss  Randolph  for  me.  You  may  argue 
that  her  views  regarding  the  fair  Barrow  are  likely  to 
militate  against  co-operation  in  this  new  direction; 
but  I  can  be  eloquent  on  occasion,  and  even  a  mother 
must  see  that  a  Barrow  is  nothing  beside  a  Goddess. 

Altogether,  I  am  nervous.  The  future  looks 
wobbly,  and  it  is  not  a  pleasant  sensation  to  feel 
that  one  is  being  secretly  undermined.  Jimmy  had 
better  look  out,  though.  The  first  shadow  of  proof 
I  get  that  he's  breaking  his  half  of  the  bargain  he 


212  The  Lightning  Conductor 

shall  learn  that  even  a  chauffeur  will  turn.  And  I 
look  upon  Cannes,  somehow,  as  the  turning-point  in 
more  senses  of  the  word  than  one. 

But  to  our  muttons.  No  pleasant  dallying  for  me 
in  beautiful  old  Nimes  or  Aries,  either  one  of  which 
would  repay  weeks  of  lingering.  What  dallying 
there  was,  Jimmy  got  —  confound  him!  —  and  my 
only  joy  was  in  his  hatred  of  early  rising.  They 
had  him  up  at  an  unearthly  hour  for  a  glimpse  of 
the  amphitheatre  and  the  Maison  Carrie  at  Nimes, 
and  by  nine  we  were  on  the  road  to  Aries,  Payne 
driving  with  creditable  caution.  We  crossed  the 
Rhone  and  completed  the  eighteen  flat  miles  in  little 
more  than  thirty  minutes.  When  we  arrived  at  the 
end  of  this  time  in  the  astonishing  little  town  of 
Aries,  halting  in  a  diminutive  square  with  two  great 
pillars  of  granite  and  a  superb  Corinthian  pediment 
(dating  from  Roman  occupation)  built  into  the  walls 
of  modern  houses,  Miss  Randolph  announced  that 
they  would  walk  about  for  half  an  hour  and  look  at 
the  antiquities.  "Half  an  hour!"  I  couldn't  help 
echoing;  "why,  Aries  is  one  of  the  most  interesting 
places  in  France.  It  is  an  open-air  museum." 

"  I  know,"  said  she,  looking  up  at  me  with  an  odd 
expression  which  I  would  have  given  many  a  bright 
sovereign  for  the  skill  to  read.  "But  maybe  I  shall 
have  a  chance  to  see  it  some  other  time,  and  the 
others  don't  care  much  for  antiquities  or  architecture. 
We  really  must  hurry  as  fast  as  possible  to  Cannes." 

Now,  why — why?  What  is  to  happen  at  Cannes? 
Is  Jimmy's  loathly  hand  in  this?  Or  —  blessed 
thought! — is  all  sight-seeing  for  her,  as  well  as  for 


The  Lightning  Conductor  213 

me,  poisoned  by  his  society?  Is  she  regretting  her 
rash  generosity  in  promising  to  carry  him  to  the 
Riviera  (to  say  nothing  of  Lord  Lane!")  and  is  she 
panting  to  rid  herself  of  him?  I  daren't  hope  it. 
But  write  me  your  deduction.  Perhaps  in  your 
enforced  inaction  at  Davos  it  may  amuse  you  to 
piece  together  a  theory  and  account  for  the  actions 
of  certain  persons  in  France,  whom  possibly  you 
know  better  than  if  you  had  ever  met  them. 

While  the  three  went  off  to  bolt  in  one  bite  such 
delicate  morsels  as  the  sculptured  porch  of  the 
cathedral  of  St.  Trophinus  and  the  Roman  theatre 
I  gloomily  played  Casabianca  by  the  car,  Ixion  at 
the  wheel,  or  what  you  will.  I  waited  their  return 
before  the  hotel,  and  no  sooner  did  they  come  back, 
at  the  end  of  their  stingy  half-hour,  than  we  started, 
taking  the  road  across  the  great  plain  of  La  Crau 
towards  Salon. 

A  most  extraordinary  region  that  plain  of  La 
Crau.  It  is  as  flat  as  a  pancake,  only  far  away  to  the 
north  one  sees  a  range  of  brown,  stony  mountains. 
Formerly  it  was  a  forbidding,  stony  desert,  the 
dumping-place  for  every  pebble  and 'boulder  brought 
down  by  the  Rhone  and  the  Durance.  But  all  over 
the  vast  wilderness  there  has  been  carried  out  a 
wonderful  system  of  irrigation,  and  now  it  yields 
sweet  herbage  for  sheep,  while  figs,  mulberries,  and 
cypresses  are  dotted  in  green  oases.  The  surface  of 
the  land  is  thickly  veined  with  the  beneficent  little 
canals,  carrying  life-giving  water  from  the  Canal  de 
Craponne,  which  has  its  origin  at  La  Roque,  on  the 
Durance. 


214  The  Lightning  Conductor 

Across  this  vast  plain  we  raced  towards  Salon, 
along  a  road  straight  as  if  drawn  by  a  ruler,  and 
bordered  by  small  poplars  standing  shoulder  to 
shoulder  like  trees  in  a  child's  box  of  toys.  We 
met  no  other  vehicles;  we  seemed  to  have  the  world 
to  ourselves;  but  once,  far  along  the  road,  we  spied 
a  black  dot  which  seemed  to  come  towards  us  with 
incredible  speed,  growing  larger  as  it  came.  In  less 
time  than  it  takes  to  write  we  saw  that  it  was  an 
enormous  racing  automobile,  probably  undergoing 
a  test  of  speed.  We  were  running  at  our  own  highest 
pace,  perhaps  forty-five  miles  an  hour;  the  thing 
approaching  us  was  coming  at  seventy  or  more.  You 
may  imagine  the  rush  of  air  as  we  passed  each  other. 
One  glimpse  we  had  of  a  masked  automobilist  like 
a  figure  of  death  in  an  Albert  Durer  cartoon,  or  the 
familiar  of  a  Vehmgericht,  and  then  we  were  gasping 
in  the  vortex  of  air  caused  by  the  speed  of  the  gigantic 
car.  Almost  before  we  could  turn  our  heads  it  was 
a  black  dot  again  on  the  horizon.  Perhaps  it  was  the 
great  Fournier  himself. 

Beyond  Salon  the  road  becomes  interestingly 
accidentee.  One  climbs  among  the  mountains  which 
fold  Marseilles  in  their  encircling  arms,  and  has 
spacious  views  over  the  great  Etang  de  Berre  to 
the  glittering  Mediterranean.  The  Napier  crested 
the  hills  without  faltering,  and  from  the  top  we  had 
a  long  run  down  (over  bad  pavt  at  the  last)  into  the 
lively,  noisy  streets  of  gay  Marseilles,  Payne  guiding 
the  car  very  decently  over  intricate  tram  lines,  finally 
turning  across  the  pavement  to  circle  into  the  white, 
airy  court  of  a  large  hotel.  When  my  passengers 


The  Lightning  Conductor  215 

had  got  down  I  drove  the  car  to  a  garage  and  went 
quietly  off  to  another  hotel,  where,  warned  by  past 
experience  at  Pau,  I  entered  myself  in  the  register 
modestly  as  James  Brown. 

Now  I  shall  hurl  at  your  devoted  and  friendly 
head  this  enormous  letter,  and  presently  shall  begin 
another  to  tell  of  the  Further  Adventures  on  the 
Riviera  of 

Your  much-enduring  Friend, 

The  AMATEUR  CHAUFFEUR. 


MOLLY  RANDOLPH  TO  HER  FATHER 

GRAND  HOTEL,  TOULON, 

December  20. 

My  Wingless  Angel, 

It's  lucky  your  poor  dear  hair  is  getting  con« 
spicuous  by  its  absence,  or  it  would  stand  up  on 
end,  I  don't  doubt,  when  you  read  a  few  lines  farther. 
So,  you  see,  even  baldness  is  a  blessing  in  disguise. 

I  won't  keep  you  in  suspense.  The  worst  shall 
come  first;  after  all  that's  happened  I  don't  mind 
such  a  little  thing  as  an  anticlimax  in  writing  to  my 
indulgent  and  uncritical  Dad. 

Now  for  it. 

I  have  deserted  Aunt  Mary  and  Jimmy  Payne  in 
a  gorge.  I  am  alone  in  a  hotel — with  Brown.  Yet 
I  ask  you  to  suspend  judgment;  I  have  not  exactly 
eloped. 

It  is  all  Jimmy  Payne's  fault. 

I  wired  you  yesterday  from  Marseilles,  because 
I  hadn't  written  since  my  second  letter  from  Pau, 
when  I  told  you  how  Aunt  Mary  had  persuaded  me 
that  it  would  be  perfectly  caddish  not  to  invite 
Jimmy  to  drive  with  us  to  the  Riviera,  as  his  car 
was  there  and  he  was  going  that  way.  I  felt  in  my 
bones  to  an  almost  rheumatic  extent  that  to  ask  him 
would  be  a  big  mistake;  still,  in  a  weak  moment  I 

3X6 


The  Lightning  Conductor  217 

consented,  when  Jimmy  had  been  particularly  nice 
and  had  just  paid  you  a  whole  heap  of  compliments, 
I  lay  awake  nearly  all  night  afterwards,  thinking 
whether  'twere  nobler  in  the  mind  of  Molly  to  hurt 
Brown's  feelings  or  Jimmy's,  since  injury  must  be 
dealt  to  one.  Finally,  I  tossed  up  for  it  in  the  sanctity 
of  my  chamber.  Heads,  Brown  drives;  tails,  Jimmy; 
and  it  was  tails.  Well,  I'd  vowed  that  should  settle 
it,  so  I  wouldn't  go  back  on  myself;  and,  anyhow, 
Jimmy  was  the  guest,  so  that  French  copper  had  the 
rights  of  it.  I  did  my  best  to  make  all  straight  with 
the  Lightning  Conductor,  who  behaved  like  the  trump 
he  is. 

Jimmy  had  spared  no  pains  or  expense  in  ad 
vertising  himself  as  an  expert  driver,  nevertheless  I 
knew  him  well  enough  not  to  be  surprised  at  finding 
out  he  didn't  know  much  more  than  I  did.  I  soon 
saw  that,  though  the  first  day  everything  went  well 
enough.  The  second  day  he  nearly  landed  us  in  a 
dreadful  scrape  with  some  peasants,  but  since  Brown 
brought  us  safely  through,  I  won't  tell  tales  out  of 
school,  especially  as  the  tables  were  rather  turned 
on  the  poor  fellow  at  Carcassonne — the  most  splendid 
place.  I  send  you  with  this  a  little  book  all  about  it, 
full  of  pictures,  and  you  are  to  be  sure  to  read  it. 
I  was  rather  sorry  for  Jimmy  afterwards;  he  was 
so  humble,  and  besides,  he  took  a  cold  in  his  head 
waiting  in  the  car  while  I  went  sight-seeing.  He 
promised  to  be  very  prudent  if  I  would  only  trust 
him  again,  and  cleverly  took  my  mind  off  his  late 
misdeeds  by  exciting  my  curiosity.  At  breakfast 
in  Narbonne,  where  we'd  unexpectedly  stayed  the 


2i8  The  Lightning  Conductor 

night,  he  hinted  darkly  of  most  exciting  events  in 
which  we  were  intimately  concerned,  which  would 
in  all  probability  take  place  at  Cannes,  if  we  could 
only  arrive  there  soon  enough.  I  couldn't  get  him 
to  tell  me  what  they  were,  but  I  fancy  Aunt  Mary 
is  at  least  partly  in  his  confidence.  She  wouldn't 
betray  him,  but  she  assured  me  that  to  miss  the  treat 
in  store  for  us  would  mean  lasting  regret.  And  she 
was  bursting  with  importance  and  mystery.  Now 
I  don't  believe  much  in  Jimmy's  show;  nothing  of 
his  ever  does  come  off,  except  his  hat  when  he  drives. 
Still,  a  little  of  Jimmy's  society  goes  a  long  way 
in  the  intimate  association  of  a  motoring  journey; 
what  it  would  be  in  married  life  I  don't  know  and 
don't  want  to  know;  and  as  I  too  began  to  think 
I  shouldn't  be  sorry  to  get  to  the  Riviera,  I  consented 
to  be  whirled  through  some  lovely  places,  just  to 
satisfy  Aunt  Mary  and  Jimmy's  craving  for  haste, 
and  lack  of  love  for  ancient  architecture. 

We  arrived  at  Marseilles,  Jimmy  doing  well.  I 
would  see  something  of  the  place,  for  I  was  true  to 
my  Monte  Cristo,  and  insisted  upon  having  a  glimpse 
of  the  Chateau  d'If.  We  got  in  at  night,  and  stayed 
at  a  delightful  hotel.  Early  in  the  morning  I  was 
up,  and  rather  than  I  should  take  Brown  as  courier, 
Jimmy  (who  resents  Brown)  was  up  early  too. 
We  had  breakfast  together — for  Aunt  Mary  stayed 
in  bed — and  went  out  to  walk.  But  it  wasn't  like 
going  about  with  the  Lightning  Conductor,  who 
knows  everything  and  has  been  everywhere  before. 
We  had  to  inquire  our  way  every  minute,  and 
shouldn't  have  known  which  things  were  worth 


The  Lightning  Conductor  219 

seeing  if  Monsieur  Rathgeb,  the  landlord,  hadn't 
told  us  to  be  sure  and  go  up  the  hill  of  Notre  Dame 
de  la  Garde  for  the  view;  so  we  went  up  in  a  lift,  and 
it  was  glorious.  Some  soldiers  marching  on  a  green 
boulevard  below  looked  like  tiny  black-beetles,  and 
the  music  of  their  bugle  band  came  floating  faintly 
to  us  like  sounds  heard  through  a  gramophone. 
The  He  d'lf  and  all  the  others  were  splendid  from 
there,  and  I  would  have  liked  to  stay  a  long  time, 
if  Jimmy  hadn't  begun  to  be  tiresome  and  harangue 
me  about  the  confidential  way  in  which  I  treat  Brown. 
" Social  distinctions,"  said  he  didactically,  "are  the 
bulwarks  of  society."  Ha,  ha!  I  couldn't  help 
laughing — could  you  in  my  place?  I  told  him  I 
thought  he  would  make  a  fortune  as  a  lecturer,  but 
lectures  weren't  much  in  my  line;  and  I  asked  if 
he'd  ever  read  Ibsen's  Pillars  of  Society,  which  of 
course  he  hadn't.  Then  we  went  down  in  the  lift, 
and  back  to  the  hotel  for  Aunt  Mary,  who  naturally 
wanted  to  shop;  and  by  the  time  she  had  finished 
buying  veils  and  cold  cream  it  was  time  for  lunch, 
which  we  had  in  one  of  the  most  charming  restau 
rants  I  was  ever  in,  on  the  Corniche  Road.  I  don't 
care  so  very  much  about  good  things  to  eat;  but  I 
do  think  that  oysters,  langouste  d  VAmericaine, 
bouillabaisse  d  la  Proven f ale,  perfectly  cooked  and 
served,  and  mixed  with  a  heavenly  view,  may  be 
something  to  rave  about.  Oh,  there's  a  lot  to  see 
and  do  in  Marseilles,  I  assure  you,  Dad,  though  one's 
friends  never  seem  to  tell  you  much  about  it;  and  it 
was  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  before  I  would 
consent  to  be  torn  away.  Of  course,  so  far  south 


22O  The  Lightning  Conductor 

the  daylight  lingers  long;  still,  we  knew  we  had  but 
an  hour  and  a  half  more  of  it  when  we  started. 
There  had'  been  a  shower  of  rain  while  Aunt  Mary 
and  I  were  packing,  and  we  had  not  been  out  of  the 
hotel  many  minutes  when  we  had  a  surprise. 

Jimmy  was  driving  along  a  paved  street,  slimy 
with  fresh  mud,  and  confusing  with  the  dash  and 
clash  of  electric  street  cars,  which  Jimmy  is  English 
enough  to  call  ''trams."  He  tried  to  pass  one  on  the 
off  side,  but  just  as  he  was  getting  ahead  of  it  another 
huge  car  came  whizzing  along  from  the  opposite 
direction.  I  didn't  say  a  word.  I  just  "sat  tight," 
but  I  had  the  queerest  feeling  in  my  feet  as  if  I 
wanted  to  jump  or  do  something.  It  looked  as  if  we 
were  going  to  be  pinched  right  between  the  two,  and 
I'd  have  given  a  good  deal  if  Brown  had  been  at  the 
helm,  for  I  would  have  been  sure  that  somehow  he'd 
contrive  to  get  us  through  all  right.  But  Jimmy  lost 
his  head — and  indeed  there  are  only  a  few  men  who 
wouldn't,  for  the  drivers  of  both  cars  were  furiously 
clanging  their  bells,  and  the  whole  world  seemed  to 
be  nothing  but  noise,  noise,  and  great  moving  things 
coming  every  way  at  once.  He  jammed  on  the  brakes 
suddenly,  which  was  just  what  Brown  in  the  tonneau 
was  trying  to  warn  him  not  to  do,  and  before  I  knew 
what  had  happened  our  automobile  waltzed  round  on 
the  road  with  a  slippery  sort  of  slide,  the  way  your 
foot  does  when  you  step  on  ice  under  snow. 

I  thought  we  were  finished,  and  I'm  afraid  I  shut 
my  eyes.  "Just  like  a  girl!"  O  yes,  thank  you; 
I  know  that ;  but  I  didn't  know  it  or  anything  else  at 
that  minute.  There  was  loud  shouting  and  swearing, 


The  Lightning  Conductor  221 

then  a  bump,  a  noise  of  splintering  wood,  another 
bump,  and  we  were  still  alive  and  unhurt,  with  a  buzz 
of  voices  round  us — quite  unkind  voices  some  of 
them,  though  I  never  felt  more  as  if  I  wanted  kind 
ness.  It  occurred  to  me  to  open  my  eyes,  and  I 
found  that  we  had  brought  up  against  the  curbstone, 
while  one  of  our  mud-guards  had  been  smashed  by 
the  iron  rail  of  the  electric  street  car,  now  stationary. 
Our  Napier  had  turned  completely  round.  The 
conductor  of  the  tram  was  scrutinising  his  scratched 
rail  and  saying  things;  but  Brown,  who  had  jumped 
out  to  examine  into  our  damage,  slyly  slipped  some 
thing  that  looked  like  a  five-franc  piece  into  his  hand. 
This  reminds  me,  I  must  pay  Brown  back;  he  can't 
refuse  such  a  thing  as  that,  though  it  seems  he  has 
taken  a  sort  of  pledge  against  accepting  tips  in  his 
professional  career.  Funny,  isn't  it?  "For  a  touch 
of  new  paint,"  I  heard  him  murmur  to  the  conductor 
in  his  nice  French,  and  that  man  must  have  been  in  a 
great  hurry  to  try  the  effect  of  the  "touch,"  for  no 
sooner  did  the  coin  change  hands  than  he  stopped 
scolding,  and  away  buzzed  the  big  electric  bumble 
bee. 

"For  mercy's  sake,  what  was  it  that  happened?" 
gasped  Aunt  Mary. 

"Side-slip,  miss,"  said  Brown  in  a  tone  dry  enough 
to  turn  the  mud  to  dust,  "from  putting  on  the  brakes 
too  quickly.  A  driver  can't  be  too  careful  on  a  sur 
face  like  this."  Which  was  one  for  Jimmy. 

The  poor  fellow  took  it  with  outward  meekness, 
though  I  saw  his  eyes  give  a  flash — and,  do  you 
know,  our  blond  Jimmy  can  look  quite  malevolent! 


222  The  Lightning  Conductor 

He  didn't  speak  to  Brown,  but  turned  to  me,  and 
said  the  side-slip  wasn't  really  his  fault  at  all;  it 
might  happen  to  anybody  in  greasy  weather;  but 
he  would  be  still  more  cautious  now  than  before.  I 
didn't  like  to  humiliate  a  guest  by  superseding  him 
with  a  servant,  capable  as  the  servant  is,  so  I  said 
that  I  hoped  he  would  be  very  careful,  and  we  started 
on  again,  somewhat  chastened  in  our  mood,  driving 
slowly,  slowly,  through  interminable  suburbs  to  a 
place  called  Aubagne. 

There  was  a  splendid  sunset  after  the  rain,  with  a 
wonderful  effect  of  heavy  violet  cloud-curtains  with 
jagged  gold  edges,  drawn  up  to  show  a  clear  sky  of 
pale  beryl-green;  and  sharp  against  the  green  were 
cut  out  purple  mountains  and  white  villages  that 
looked  like  flocks  of  resting  gulls.  We  were  in  wild 
and  beautiful  country  by  the  time  the  thickening 
clouds  compelled  us  to  stop  and  light  our  two  oil- 
lamps  and  the  huge  acetylene  Bleriot. 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  wind,  and  Aunt  Mary 
began  to  shiver  as  we  started  on,  still  going  slowly. 
"Oh  dear  !  "  she  exclaimed  crossly,  "we  shall  never 
get  anywhere  to-night  if  we  crawl  like  this.  Surely 
there's  no  danger  now?  " 

That  was  enough  for  Jimmy.  He  said  that  cer 
tainly  there  was  no  danger  now,  and  never  had  been. 
Opening  the  throttle,  he  began  to  tell  me  anecdotes 
of  a  trip  he  had  made  with  his  Panhard  over  the 
Stelvio  with  snow  on  the  ground.  If  I  weren't  afraid 
now  of  a  decent  pace,  he'd  get  us  into  Toulon  in  no 
time. 

I  do  hate  to  have  people  think  I'm  afraid,  so  of 


The  Lightning  Conductor  223 

course  I  denied  it  sharply,  and  we  began  to  fly  down 
hill.  Our  lamps  seemed  to  have  shut  the  night  down 
closely  all  around  us.  We  didn't  see  much  except 
the  road  with  the  light  flying  along  it;  but  suddenly t 
circling  round  a  curve,  there  appeared — dark  within 
the  brilliant  circle  of  our  Bleriot — a  great,  unlighted 
waggon  lumbering  up  the  hill  we  were  descending, 
and  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  road. 

We  were  close  on  to  it,  and  oh,  Dad,  that  was  a 
bad  moment!  It  was  made  up  of  lightning-quick 
impressions  and  feelings,  no  reasoning  at  all.  Jimmy 
was  frantically  blowing  the  horn,  though  it  was  too 
late  to  be  of  much  good.  I  had  a  vision  of  a  startled 
Jack-in-the-box  man  appearing  from  the  bottom  of 
the  waggon  to  snatch  wildly  at  the  reins;  the  next 
instant  our  car  waltzed  round  just  as  it  had  in  Mar 
seilles,  twisted  off  the  road,  and,  with  a  loud  shriek 
from  Aunt  Mary,  who  had  clutched  me  by  the  arm, 
we  all  pitched  headlong  into  darkness. 

It  felt  as  if  we  were  falling  for  ever  so  long,  just 
as  it  does  in  a  dream  before  you  wake  up  with  a 
great  start ;  but  I  suppose  it  really  wasn't  more  than 
a  second.  The  next  thing  I  knew,  I  was  on  my 
hands  and  knees  among  some  stones;  and  evidently 
I'm  vainer  than  I  fancied,  for  among  other  thoughts 
coming  one  on  top  of  the  other,  I  was  glad  my  face 
wasn't  hurt.  I've  always  imagined  that  it  must  be 
terrible  for  a  girl  to  come  to  herself  after  an  accident 
and  find  she  had  no  face. 

I  scrambled  to  my  feet  and  began  calling  to  the 
others.     I  think  I  called  Brown  first,  because,  yo 
see,  he  is  so  quick  in  emergencies,  and  he  would  bt 


224  The  Lightning  Conductor 

ready  to  look  after  the  others.  But  he  didn't  speak, 
and  the  most  awful  cold,  sick  feeling  settled  down  on 
my  heart.  "Oh,  Brown,  Brown!"  I  heard  myself 
crying,  just  as  you  hear  yourself  in  a  nightmare, 
and  it  hardly  seemed  more  real  than  that.  Into 
the  midst  of  my  calling  Aunt  Mary's  voice  mingled, 
and  I  was  thankful,  for  it  didn't  sound  as  if  she  were 
much  hurt. 

Our  lamps  had  gone  out,  and  it  was  almost  pitch 
dark  now,  for  clouds  covered  the  moon.  But  there 
came  a  glimmer,  which  kept  growing  brighter;  and 
looking  up  I  saw  a  man  standing  with  a  lantern  held 
over  his  head,  peering  down  a  steep  bank  with  a  look 
of  horror.  The  same  glimmer  showed  me  something 
else — Brown's  face  on  the  ground,  white  as  a  stone, 
his  eyes  wide  open  with  an  unseeing  stare.  I  ran  to 
him,  and  found  that  I  was  pushing  Aunt  Mary  back, 
as  she  was  trying  to  get  up  from  somewhere  close  at 
hand.  She  caught  at  me,  and  wouldn't  let  me  go  by. 
"Oh  dear,  oh  dear! "  she  was  sobbing,  and  I  begged 
her  to  tell  me  if  she  were  hurt. 

"No,  thank  Heaven!  I  fell  on  Brown,"  she  said, 
"and  that  saved  me." 

I  could  have  boxed  her  ears.  One  would  have 
thought,  to  hear  her,  that  he  was  a  sort  of  fire-escape. 
I  snatched  my  dress  out  of  her  hands,  and  knelt 
down  beside  poor  Brown,  who  was  perhaps  dead,  all 
through  my  fault — for  I  saw  now  that  I  ought  never 
to  have  let  Jimmy  Payne  drive  the  car.  By  this  time 
the  man  with  the  lantern  (it  was  the  carter  who  had 
made  the  trouble  for  us)  had  slid  down  the  steep 
bank,  and  come  straight  to  where  I  was  kneeling. 


The  Lightning  Conductor  225 

"Ah,  mademoiselle,  il  est  mart!  "  he  exclaimed.  How 
I  did  hate  him!  I  screamed  out,  "  He  isn't,  he  isn't!  " 
but  it  was  only  to  make  myself  believe  it  wasn't 
true,  and  I  couldn't  help  crying  —  big  hot  tears 
that  splashed  right  down  into  Brown's  eyes.  And  I 
suppose  it  was  their  being  so  hot  that  woke  him 
up,  for  he  did  wake  up,  and  looked  straight  at  me, 
dazed  at  first,  then  sensibly — such  a  queer  effect,  the 
intelligence  and  brightness  taking  the  place  of  that 
frightened  stare.  The  first  thing  he  said  was,  "Are 
you  hurt  ?  "  And  I  said  "  No  " ;  and  then  I  discovered 
that  I  was  holding  his  hand  as  fast  as  ever  I  could 
— only  think,  holding  your  chauffeur's  hand! — but 
such  a  brave,  faithful  chauffeur,  never  thinking  of  his 
own  face,  as  I  had  of  mine,  but  of  me. 

That  made  me  laugh  and  draw  back,  and  we  both 
said  something  about  being  glad.  And  I  wanted  to 
help  him,  but  he  didn't  need  any  help,  and  was  up 
like  an  arrow  the  next  second.  And  then,  for  the 
first  time,  I  saw  the  car,  standing  upright  with  Jimmy 
Payne,  sitting  in  it,  hanging  on  like  grim  death  to  the 
steering-post,  which  he  was  embracing  as  if  he  were 
a  monkey  on  a  stick. 

I  did  laugh  at  that — one  does  laugh  more  when 
something1  dreadful  has  nearly  happened,  but  not 
quite,  than  at  any  other  time,  I  think — though  into 
the  midst  of  my  laugh  came  a  sudden  little  pain. 
It  was  in  my  left  wrist,  and  it  ached  hard,  one  quick 
throb  after  another,  as  if  they  were  in  a  hurry  to  get 
their  chance  to  hurt.  But  I  didn't  say  anything, 
for  it  seemed  such  a  trifle.  Brown  assured  me  that 
he  was  "right  as  rain,"  that  he'd  only  been  dazed 


226  The  Lightning  Conductor 

and  perhaps  unconscious  for  a  minute  through  falling 
on  his  head.  I  wondered  if  he  knew  about  Aunt 
Mary.  But  it  was  too  delicate  a  subject  to  raise. 
Anyway,  she  hadn't  a  bruise.  And  wasn't  it  extra 
ordinary  about  Jimmy?  The  car  had  "fallen  on 
its  feet,"  so  to  speak,  and  he  had  hung  on  to  the 
steering-post  so  hard  that  not  only  had  he  kept  his 
seat,  but  he  had  wrenched  the  steering-gear.  Brown 
discovered  this  in  peering  into  the  works  by  the  light 
of  one  of  our  own  oil-lamps,  relit  from  the  carter's 
lantern.  If  the  Napier  hadn't  been  a  magnificent 
car  it  would  have  been  frightfully  damaged,  although, 
finding  itself  compelled  to  take  a  twelve-foot  jump 
off  the  road,  it  had  cleverly  chosen  comparatively 
smooth,  meadow-like  ground  to  descend  upon.  Not 
even  a  tyre  was  punctured;  no  harm  whatever 
appeared  to  have  been  done  except  that,  as  I  said, 
owing  to  Jimmy's  savage  contortions  in  search  of 
safety,  the  steering-gear  was  wrenched. 

There's  a  thing  called  a  worm  in  steering-gear,  it 
seems,  also  a  rod;  and  new  ones  would  have  to  be 
fitted  in  ours  before  we  could  go  on  again.  When  I 
heard  this  I  felt  rather  qualmish,  for  my  wrist  was 
aching  a  good  deal,  and  had  begun  to  swell.  Brown 
and  the  carter  were  talking  together,  and  according 
to  them  the  best  thing  seemed  to  be  to  carry  luggage 
and  rugs  to  the  nearest  village,  Le  Beausset,  and  try 
to  get  accommodation  there  for  the  night.  Brown 
would  go  on  to  Toulon,  he  said,  and  try  to  get  new 
parts  for  the  car,  with  which  he'd  come  back  early  in 
the  morning. 

Still  I  didn't  say  anything  about  my  wrist.     Aunt 


The  Lightning  Conductor  227 

Mary  and  I  scrambled  up  the  bank,  and  Brown, 
Jimmy,  and  the  carter  went  back  and  forth  for  our 
things.  The  latter  had  been  going  away  from  Le 
Beausset,  not  towards  it  when  the  accident  happened, 
but  he  agreed  to  turn  round  and  take  our  luggage  on 
his  cart  to  the  village.  He  made  room  for  Aunt  Mary 
too,  sitting  on  bags  and  portmanteaus  like  Marius 
on  the  ruins  of  Carthage,  and  the  rest  of  us  walked, 
about  a  mile. 

Le  Beausset  proved  to  be  a  tiny  place,  and  at  the 
solitary  inn  there  was  but  one  small  bedroom  to  let, 
the  rest  being  taken  by  some  rough,  selfish-looking 
commercial  travellers,  who  were  having  an  early 
dinner  in  a  hot  and  smelly  salle  d  manger,  with  every 
breath  of  air  religiously  excluded. 

I  thought  that  without  being  fussy  I  might  draw 
the  general  attention  to  myself.  I  announced  a  wrist, 
and  demanded  a  surgeon  lest  I  had  cracked  a  bone. 
Brown  vanished  like  a  pantomine  demon,  but  re 
turned  almost  immediately  with  a  long  face,  and  the 
intelligence  that  Le  Beausset  had  neither  surgeon 
nor  resident  doctor.  There  was  no  vehicle,  not  even 
a  bicycle,  to  be  had  for  love  or  money  at  this  time 
of  day,  but  he  would  make  all  haste  to  Toulon  and 
send  back  a  competent  man.  The  worst  of  it  was 
there  might  be  delay,  as  it  was  about  ten  miles  to 
Toulon.  Halfway  between  Le  Beausset  and  the  big 
town  was  a  small  one  called  Ollioules,  and  there,  it 
appeared,  one  could  take  an  electric  tram  into  Tou 
lon;  but  it  was  a  long  way  for  a  doctor  to  come, 
and  it  might  be  several  hours  before  he  could  arrive. 

"Then  I'll  go  to  Toulon  with  you,"  said  I.     "I 


228  The  Lightning  Conductor 

don't  feel  as  if  I  could  stand  much  waiting;  the  walk 
will  take  my  mind  off  the  pain,  and  I  can  have  my 
wrist  attended  to  the  minute  I  get  there.  " 

Instantly  Aunt  Mary  burst  into  a  cataract  of  objec 
tions,  and  I  only  dammed  the  flood  (quite  in  the 
proper  sense  of  the  word,  because,  like  Marjorie 
Fleming,  I  was  "most  unusual  calm;  I  did  not  give 
a  single  damn")  by  suggesting  that,  once  in  Toulon, 
I  might  send  back  a  comfortable  carriage  and  engage 
rooms  in  a  good  hotel  for  us  all  for  the  night. 

"Well,  I  can't  and  won't  stay  here  alone,  that's 
flat,"  pronounced  my  dear  aunt;  and  despite  all  her 
lectures  against  "liberty,  fraternity,  and  equality"  in 
my  treatment  of  poor  Brown,  she  was  willing  to  let 
me  go  unchaperoned  save  by  him,  for  the  sake  of 
retaining  Jimmy  Payne's  protecting  presence  herself. 
As  for  Jimmy,  it  was  easy  to  see  that  he  didn't  like 
the  idea  at  all;  but  he  had  jarred  himself  a  good 
deal  in  his  eccentric  fall,  and  evidently  funked  another 
tramp.  He  had  limped  ostentatiously  every  step  of 
the  way  to  Le  Beausset.  Brown  was  afraid  that  I 
wasn't  up  to  the  walk,  but  I  assured  him  it  would 
be  much  less  uncomfortable  than  indefinite  waiting, 
and  I  think  he  saw  by  my  face  that  I  was  right. 
After  all  our  delay  it  was  only  half -past  five  when 
we  set  off,  and  would  scarcely  have  been  thoroughly 
dark  if  it  hadn't  been  for  the  clouds  which  had  been 
boiling  up  from  the  west  all  over  the  sky. 

I  had  no  idea  what  kind  of  a  walk  we  were  in  for 
when  we  started,  neither  had  Brown,  for  he  had 
never  been  over  exactly  this  part  of  the  world  either 
walking  or  driving,  but  only  in  the  train.  We  hadn't 


The  Lightning  Conductor  229 

been  gone  long  when  we  plunged  downwards  into 
a  deep  and  winding  mountain  gorge,  the  kind  of  cut 
throat  place  where  you'd  expect  brigands  to  grow  on 
blackberry  bushes.  Oh,  but  it  was  dark,  with  only 
now  and  then  a  fitful  gleam  of  moonlight  cutting  its 
way  through  a  rent  in  the  inky  clouds!  Hardly  had 
the  word  "brigands"  crept  into  my  mind  with  an 
accompaniment  of  heart-beats  something  like  the 
plink!  plink!  plink!  villain  entrance-music  on  the 
stage,  when  two  indistinct  forms  loomed  out  of  the 
blackness  before  us.  A  perpendicular  wall  of  rock 
shot  up  from  the  road  on  one  side,  and  on  the  other, 
in  some  unseen  depth  below,  roared  a  torrent,  which 
drowned  my  voice  when  I  whispered  to  Brown,  so 
I  clutched  his  coat-sleeve  instead  of  speaking. 

The  two  men  were  chattering  loudly  in  Italian. 
"Ah,  Italian  brigands,  worse  and  worse!"  thought 
I;  but  Brown  said  "Good-evening"  to  them  boldly, 
and  they  answered  as  mildly  as  a  pair  of  lambs, 
falling  behind  to  let  us  pass  on.  I  skipped  along, 
expecting  at  any  instant  to  feel  a  knife  in  my  back, 
but  the  blade  did  not  penetrate  any  part  more  vital 
than  my  imagination,  though  the  pair  hung  on  our 
footsteps  till  we  emerged  from  the  mountain  defile 
into  the  town  of  Ollioules. 

I  never  knew  what  an  attractive  object  an  electric 
tram  could  be,  until  I  saw  one  there  awaiting  our 
convenience,  glittering  with  hospitable  light.  We 
jumped  in,  and  were  flashed  into  Toulon  in  no  time, 
stopping  close  to  the  best  hotel.  We  found  that 
they  could  accommodate  our  party,  but  Brown  quite 
took  the  upper  hand;  wouldn't  allow  me  to  stop  and 


230  The  Lightning  Conductor 

talk,  had  me  swept  off  to  a  very  nice  room,  and  said 
that  not  only  would  he  see  about  a  surgeon  for  me, 
but  would  arrange  for  a  carriage  to  drive  back  for 
Aunt  Mary  and  Jimmy. 

Till  we  got  into  the  electric  car  at  Ollioules  I 
hadn't  noticed  in  the  dark  that  Brown  was  carrying 
anything.  But  he  put  down  on  the  car  seat  quite  a 
heavy  bag  of  mine  and  a  sort  of  big  dressing-case 
of  his  own,  which  is  his  only  baggage  on  the  auto 
mobile.  "Why  did  you  lug  all  that?"  I  exclaimed. 
1  'Oh,  I  thought  you  might  need  something  before 
the  others  arrived,"  said  he,  "and  I  didn't  like  to 
trouble  them  to  look  after  mine."  Wasn't  he  thought 
ful?  And  I  was  glad  to  have  my  bag  —  without 
waiting.  But  just  think  of  the  state  of  that  poor 
fellow's  muscles!  . 

It  was  a  quarter  to  seven  when  I  got  into  my 
rooms  at  the  hotel,  and  ten  minutes  later  the  doctor 
arrived.  If  he  had  had  bad  news  to  give  me  about 
my  wrist,  I  shouldn't  have  written  the  tale  of  this 
adventure  so  frankly;  but  I  can  leave  a  good  im 
pression  on  your  mind  in  the  end  by  telling  you  that 
all' s  well  with  your  ' '  one  fair  daughter. "  1 1 '  s  a  sprain , 
no  worse;  and  the  stuff  which  the  clever  man  pre 
scribed  has  soothed  the  pain  wonderfully.  I'm  so 
thankful  it's  my  left  wrist,  not  the  right;  and  so 
ought  you  to  be,  or  you  would  have  to  do  without 
letters.  This  is  the  time  when  I  miss  my  maid;  but 
a  dear  little  femme  de  chambre  of  the  hotel  helped 
me  dress,  and  it  is  wonderful  how  well  you  can  get 
on  with  only  one  hand. 

Now  I've  something  else  to  break  to  you,  Dad. 


The  Lightning  Conductor  231 

The  hotel  was  rather  full,  and  all  the  private  sitting- 
rooms  were  gone,  otherwise  I  might  have  had  dinner 
upstairs;  but  I  drew  the  line  at  dining  abjectly  in  a 
bedroom.  Still,  I  didn't  quite  like  the  idea  of  sailing 
into  a  big  salle  d  manger,  alone,  with  a  bound-up 
wrist,  and  perhaps  making  an  exhibition  of  myself 
cutting  up  meat  in  a  one-handed  way.  So  before 
Brown  went  to  call  the  doctor  I  just  said  to  him 
casually  that  it  would  be  an  accommodation  if  he 
would  dine  in  the  salle  d  manger  with  me  this  once. 
He  looked  surprised,  and  seemed  to  hesitate  a  little 
before  he  said  that  he  would  do  so  with  pleasure,  if  I 
thought  it  best.  I  was  almost  sorry  I'd  asked,  but 
I  wouldn't  go  back;  and,  anyhow,  what  else  cmld  I 
have  done?  He  is  extraordinarily  gentlemanly  in 
his  looks  and  manner,  and  never  takes  the  least 
advantage;  so  I  hope  you'll  agree  with  me  that  of 
two  evils  I  chose  the  less.  And  when  I  made  the 
arrangement  I  supposed  Aunt  Mary  and  Jimmy 
would  be  arriving  before  bedtime,  so  that  I  should 
only  be  a  lone,  unprotected  female  for  a  few  hours. 
But  we  hadn't  been  in  the  hotel  five  minutes  before 
it  came  on  to  rain  again,  a  perfect  deluge  this  time, 
with  thunder  and  lightning;  and  while  the  nice 
femme  de  chambre  was  helping  me  into  a  ducky  little 
lace  waist  which  was  in  the  bag  Brown  had  carried, 
to  my  great  surprise  a  telegram  was  brought  to  my 
door.  At  first  I  thought  there  must  be  a  mistake, 
but  it  really  was  for  me.  Brown  had  mentioned  the 
name  of  the  best  hotel  in  Toulon,  where  we  would 
try  to  get  rooms  before  he  and  I  left  the  others  at  Le 
Beausset;  and  the  telegram  was  from  Aunt  Mary. 


232  The  Lightning  Conductor 

"Don't  send  carriage.  Prefer  stay  here  to  driving 
in  such  storm.  Feel  sure  you  are  safe  without  us." 

I  knew  the  carriage  was  already  ordered,  but 
thinking  it  might  not  have  started,  I  scribbled  a  line 
in  pencil  to  Brown,  and  enclosed  the  telegram.  Aunt 
Mary  is  such  a  coward  in  thunderstorms;  but  it  was 
silly  of  her,  for  it  couldn't  have  gone  on  thundering 
all  night.  I  was  rather  cross,  but  I  had  to  laugh 
when  I  thought  of  Jimmy.  He  must  have  been 
wild. 

If  I'd  known  in  time,  perhaps  I  should  have  stayed 
ignominiously  in  my  bedroom,  but  I  wouldn't  make 
a  change  then ;  it  seemed  such  a  tempest  in  a  teapot. 
So  when  I  was  ready  I  went  down  as  if  nothing  had 
happened,  and  looked  around  for  Brown  where  I'd 
told  him  to  meet  me  at  half -past  eight,  in  the  hall. 
My  goodness!  I  was  surprised  when  I  saw  him  in 
evening  dress — a  jolly  dinner-jacket  and  a  black  tie. 
He  might  have  been  a  prince.  I  wouldn't  have  said 
a  word  if  I'd  stopped  to  think;  but  I  exclaimed  on 
the  impulse,  and  was  dreadfully  ashamed  of  myself, 
for  he  got  rather  red.  He  said  quite  humbly  that  he 
hadn't  wished  to  discredit  me,  since  I'd  done  him  the 
honour  of  allowing  him  to  serve  me  in  a  somewhat 
different  capacity  this  evening  (that  was  a  nice  way 
of  putting  it,  wasn't  it?),  so  he  had  decided  to  wear 
a  suit  of  clothes  which  Mr.  John  Winston  had  left 
him;  and  he  hoped  I  wasn't  displeased. 

After  all,  why  should  I  have  been  when  you  come 
to  think  of  it?  So  we  dined  at  a  little  table  all  to 
ourselves,  with  pretty  shaded  candles  and  some  lovely 
flowers.  People  were  already  beginning  to  leave  the 


The  Lightning  Conductor  233 

room,  and  nobody  noticed  anything  strange  about  us 
as  a  couple;  we  appeared  just  like  everybody  else, 
only  rather  better  looking,  if  I  do  say  it  myself.  I 
had  a  very  interesting  talk  with  Brown,  and  he  told 
me  several  things  about  his  life,  though  I  had  to 
draw  them  out,  as  he  is  more  modest  than  Jimmy 
Payne.  He  is  far  above  his  work,  though  he  does  it 
so  well.  I  wish  so  much  you  could  do  something 
nice  for  him.  Can't  you? 

This  is  the  next  morning,  and  I  am  writing  in  my 
room,  waiting  for  the  car  to  arrive.  Aunt  Mary  and 
Jimmy  will  come  in  it ;  they've  telegraphed  again. 

I  am  looking  forward  to  the  Riviera  now,  but  I 
have  such  a  queer,  unsettled  feeling — sort  of  half  sad, 
without  knowing  why,  which  is  stupid,  as  I'm  having 
a  splendid  time.  I  suppose  it's  my  wrist  which  has 
made  me  nervous. 

Your  loving 

MOLLY. 


FROM  JACK  WINSTON  TO  LORD  LANE 

GRAND  HOTEL,  TOULON, 

December  19. 

My  good  Montie, 

It  is  getting  on  towards  eleven  o'clock  at 
night,  and  as  Payne  has  treated  us  to  a  smashup 
and  I  have  walked  some  miles  carrying  I  don't  know 
how  many  pounds  of  luggage,  you  might  think  that 
I  would  be  more  inclined  for  bed  than  letter- writing. 
But,  on  the  contrary,  I  have  no  desire  for  sleep. 
A  change  has  come  o'er  my  spirit.  I  am  happy. 
I  have  dined  alone  with  my  Goddess.  I  almost  took 
your  advice  and  the  opportunity  to  make  a  clean 
breast  of  things,  but  not  quite.  Presently  I  will  tell 
you  why,  and  ask  if  you  don't  think  I  was  right  in 
the  circumstances. 

The  said  circumstances  I  owe  indirectly  to  Payne 
— also  a  lump  on  the  back  of  my  head;  but  that 
is  a  detail.  I  am  in  too  blissful  a  frame  of  mind 
to-night  to  dwell  on  it  or  any  other  detail  belonging 
to  the  accident,  though  maybe  I'll  give  you  the  his 
tory  of  the  affair  in  a  future  letter.  Suffice  it  to  say, 
before  getting  on  to  pleasanter  things,  that  the  car 
reposes  in  a  lonesome  meadow  below  a  steep  em 
bankment  about  a  dozen  miles  away,  where  it  is 

234 


The  Lightning  Conductor  235 

perfectly  safe  till  I  can  get  back  to  its  succour  early 
to-morrow;  Aunt  Mary  and  Jimmy  Sherlock  are 
enjoying  each  other's  society  at  a  country  inn  rather 
nearer;  Miss  Randolph  and  I  are  here.  She  came 
on  because  she  had  to  have  a  sprained  wrist  treated 
by  a  competent  doctor;  I  came  to  buy  new  parts  for 
the  car;  naturally  we  joined  forces.  The  others  were 
to  have  a  carriage  sent  back  to  them  from  Toulon, 
but  Aunt  Mary  funked  the  long  drive  on  account  of 
a  furious  storm.  Miss  Randolph  could  get  no  private 
sitting-room,  and  as,  with  a  disabled  wrist,  she  didn't 
care  to  face  the  ordeal  of  a  salle  a  manger  alone,  she 
suggested  that  I  should  attend  her  at  dinner.  Not 
as  a  servant,  mind,  but  "for  this  occasion  only"  as  an 
equal. 

For  an  instant  I  was  doubtful,  for  her  sake;  but  to 
have  put  a  thought  of  impropriety  into  her  sweet 
mind  would  have  been  coarse.  Besides,  the  request 
from  mistress  to  man  was  equivalent  to  a  royal 
command.  I  hope,  however,  that  had  there  been 
any  fear  of  unfortunate  consequences  to  her,  I  should 
have  been  strong  enough  to  resist  temptation. 

I  told  her  that,  if  she  thought  it  best  to  condescend 
to  my  companionship,  I  should  be  highly  honoured. 
And  I  added  that  I  had  with  me  a  decent  suit  of 
black.  We  then  parted;  I  went  to  find  a  doctor  for 
Miss  Randolph,  and  to  see  about  a  carriage  to  go 
back  for  the  others  to  the  village  of  Le  Beausset.  It 
also  occurred  to  me  that  it  would  be  nice  to  have  a 
few  flowers  with  which  to  deck  the  table  for  the  hap 
piest  dinner  of  my  life.  The  shops  were  not  yet  all 
closed,  and  at  one  not  far  from  the  hotel  I  selected 


236  The  Lightning  Conductor 

some  exquisite  La  France  roses  and  a  dozen  sprays 
of  forced  white  lilac,  which  I  had  once  heard  Miss 
Randolph  say  was  among  her  favourite  flowers. 
When  I  came  to  pay  the  bill,  however — three  francs 
a  spray  for  the  lilac,  and  a  franc  for  each  of  the  twelve 
roses — there  were  only  a  few  coppers  in  my  pocket. 
I  remembered  then  that  I  had  spent  my  last  franc 
in  Marseilles,  without  attaching  any  importance 
to  the  matter,  as  I'd  wired  for  remittances  to  arrive 
at  Cannes,  and  my  "screw"  due  to-night  would  see 
me  through  till  then.  Now  the  situation  was  a  bit 
awkward.  I  wanted  to  take  the  flowers  with  me 
and  give  them  to  the  head  waiter  to  place  on  the 
table  where  Miss  Randolph  and  I  would  dine.  I 
could  not  have  them  sent  over  and  ask  the  hotel 
people  to  settle,  because  then  they  would  appear  on 
her  bill  to-morrow  morning,  as  now  she  would  cer 
tainly  not  pay  my  wages  this  evening.  I  couldn't 
bear  to  give  up  the  bouquet;  besides,  I  would  need 
more  ready  money  to-night.  I  had  visions  of  order 
ing  first-rate  wine,  and  letting  the  Goddess  suppose  it 
was  vin  compris  with  the  table  d'hote  dinner.  I  there 
fore  confessed  my  pennilessness  to  the  shopman,  and 
asked  if  I  should  be  likely  to  find  a  mont-de-pi&tt 
still  open.  He  replied  that  the  pawnshops  did  their 
busiest  trade  in  the  evening  about  this  time,  told  me 
where  I  could  find  the  best,  and  agreed  to  keep  the 
flowers  until  my  return. 

The  one  thing  of  value  I  had  with  me  was  my 
monogrammed  gold  repeater,  which  my  father  gave 
me  when  I  went  up  to  Oxford,  and  I  didn't  much 
like  parting  with  it,  especially  as  I  can't  get  it  back 


The  Lightning  Conductor  237 

to-morrow,  but  will  have  to  send  back  the  ticket  for 
it  from  Cannes,  when  I'm  in  funds.  However,  I 
had  no  choice,  so  I  put  my  poor  turnip  up  the  spout, 
and  got  a  tenner  for  it.  With  this  in  French  money 
I  retraced  my  steps  to  the  florist's,  and  bore  off  my 
fragrant  spoils  in  triumph  to  the  hotel.  Hardly 
had  I  given  the  flowers  to  the  head  waiter,  ordered 
an  extra  dish  or  two  on  the  menu  and  a  bottle  of 
Mumm  to  be  iced,  when  a  pencilled  note  from  Miss 
Randolph  was  handed  to  me.  It  contained  a  wire 
from  Aunt  Mary,  saying  that  she  and  Jimmy  would 
not  leave  their  present  quarters,  on  account  of  the 
storm.  I  sent  word  to  have  the  carriage  stopped, 
and  luckily  for  the  driver  the  message  was  just  in 
time.  Then  it  struck  me  that  in  the  circumstances 
I  had  better  put  up  at  another  hotel  for  the  night. 
I  made  all  arrangements,  had  my  bag  taken  over 
to  a  little  commercial  sort  of  house  near  by,  and 
left  myself  just  twenty  minutes  to  bathe  and  change. 
Gladstone  could  do  it  in  five,  I've  been  told.  But 
it  was  all  I  could  manage  in  fifteen,  for  I  had  de 
cided  to  do  myself  well,  not  to  shame  my  dinner- 
companion. 

Thanks  to  my  little  trick  of  going  to  a  different 
hotel  from  the  party  when  we  are  stopping  anywhere 
longer  than  one  night,  I  can  always  indulge  in 
civilised  garb  of  an  evening  therefore  in  the  dressing- 
case,  which  is  my  little  all  on  the  car,  I  carry  some 
thing  decent.  Our  mutual  tailor,  Montie,  is  not  to 
be  despised;  and  when  I'd  got  into  my  pumps  and 
all  my  things,  I  don't  think  there  was  much  amiss. 

I  arrived  at  our  rendezvous — the  hall  of  the  hotel 


238  The  Lightning  Conductor 

— just  one  minute  before  the  appointed  time;  and 
five  minutes  later  I  saw  Her  coming  downstairs. 

I  have  sometimes  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  in  the 
evenings,  dressed  for  dinner  at  good  hotels,  and  her 
frocks  are  like  herself,  always  the  most  perfect.  To 
night  she  had  no  luggage  except  a  bag  I  had  carried, 
nevertheless  she  had  somehow  achieved  a  costume  in 
which  she  was  a  vision.  Perhaps  if  I  were  a  woman 
I  should  have  seen  that  she  had  on  her  day-skirt, 
with  an  evening  bodice,  but  being  merely  a  man  over 
his  ears  in  love,  I  can  only  tell  you  that  the  effect 
was  dazzling.  In  admiration  of  her  I  forgot  my 
own  transformation  until  I  saw  her  pretty  eyebrows 
go  up  with  surprise. 

I  felt  my  heart  thump  behind  my  rather  jolly 
white  waistcoat.  On  the  second  step  from  the 
bottom  she  stopped  and  exclaimed,  "Why,  Brown, 

how  nice  you  look!  You're  exactly  like  a " 

There  she  stopped,  getting  deliciously  pink,  as  if  she'd 
been  a  naughty  child  pinched  by  a  "grown-up"  in 
the  midst  of  a  malapropos  remark.  I  could  fill  up 
the  blank  for  myself,  and  was  highly  complimented 
by  her  opinion  that  I  was  "exactly  like  a  gentleman." 
I  explained  that  the  clothes  were  Mr.  Winston's,  and 
had  been  donned  with  a  highly  laudable  motive.  It 
was  evident  that  she  approved  both  cause  and  effect ; 
and  we  went  in  to  dinner  together. 

I  can't  describe  to  you,  my  boy,  the  pure  delight 
of  that  moment;  the  pride  I  felt  in  her  beauty,  the 
new  and  intoxicating  sense  of  possession  born  of  the 
tete-a-tete.  But  if  you .  could  have  seen  the  lovely 
shadow  her  eyelashes  made  on  her  cheeks  as  she  sat 


The  Lightning  Conductor  239 

there  opposite  to  me  at  our  daintily  appointed  little 
table,  you  might  partly  understand. 

Fortunately  there  was  a  small  bunch  of  flowers  on 
each  table,  so  that  ours  was  not  conspicuous,  save  in 
superiority.  She  admired  it,  took  out  a  spray  of 
lilac  and  tucked  it  into  the  neck  of  her  dress,  the 
stem  lying  close  against  her  white  satin  skin.  Then, 
as  she  ate  the  hors  cTazuvres,  she  sat  silent  and  ap 
parently  thoughtful.  It  was  not  until  we  had  be 
gun  with  the  soup  that  she  spoke  again. 

"I  do  hope  you  won't  think  me  rude  or  inquisi 
tive,  Brown,"  was  her  curiosity-provoking  preface. 
"  I  don't  mean  to  be  either.  But,  you  know,  you 
interest  me  a  good  deal.  In  America  we  haven't 
precisely  a  middle  class.  It's  all  top  and  bottom 
with  us,  just  like  a  tart  with  the  inside  forgotten. 
There,  one  wouldn't — wouldn't  be  apt  to  meet  any 
one  quite  like  you.  I — oh,  I  don't  know  how  to  put 
it.  I'm  afraid  I  began  to  say  something  that  I  can't 
finish.  But — let  me  see,  what  shall  I  say?  Isn't  it 
a  pity  that  with  your  intelligence  and — and  manners, 
and  all  you've  learned,  you  can't  get  a  position 
which  would — would  give  you — er — better  oppor 
tunities?" 

At  the  moment  I  thought  that  no  position  could 
give  me  a  better  opportunity  than  I  had;  in  fact,  as 
I  began  to  tell  you  in  the  first  few  lines  of  this  letter, 
I  was  inclined  to  believe  it  sent  by  Providence  as 
an  unexpected  way  out  of  my  difficulties.  Here  we 
were  together  in  no  danger  of  being  disturbed  by  out 
siders  (one  doesn't  count  a  waiter);  here  was  she  in 
a  benignant  mood,  interested  in  me,  and  inclined  to 


240  The  Lightning  Conductor 

kindness.  In  another  second  I  would  have  blurted 
out  the  whole  truth,  when  a  voice  seemed  to  say  in 
side  of  me,  "No,  she  is  alone  in  this  hotel  to-night 
with  you.  She  is,  in  a  way,  at  your  mercy.  You 
will  be  doing  an  unchivalrous  thing  if,  when  she  is 
practically  deserted  by  her  people  and  thrown  upon 
your  protection,  you  proclaim  yourself  a  lover  in 
place  of  a  servant."  That  voice  was  right.  Even 
you  can't  say  it  wasn't. 

I  swallowed  my  confession  with  a  spoonful  of  soup, 
and  nearly  choked  over  the  combination. 

"The  fact  is,"  I  said  desperately  yet  cautiously, 
"since  you  are  kind  enough  to  take  an  interest,  that 
I — er — am  not  exactly  what  I  seem  to-day.  My 
parents  were  gentlefolk,  in  a  humble  way."  (I  didn't 
go  beyond  the  truth  there,  did  I?  And  as  for  the 
"humble  way,"  why,  everything  goes  by  compari 
son,  from  a  king  down  to  a  mere  viscount.)  "They 
gave  me  an  education"  (they  did,  bless  them!),  "but 
owing  to — er — strong  pressure  of  circumstances" 
(the  effect  of  Her  beauty,  seen  in  a  Paris  garage)  "I 
decided  to  make  use  of  my  mechanical  knowledge 
in  the  way  I  am  doing  at  present." 

"I  suppose,"  commented  my  Goddess,  with  the 
sweetest  sympathy,  "that  you  had  lost  your  money." 

"Well,"  I  said,  thinking  of  my  late  penniless  con 
dition  and  my  watch  at  the  pawnshop,  "I  have  a 
great  deal  less  money  now  than  I  was  brought  up  to 
expect." 

"That  is  very  sad,"  she  sighed. 

"And  yet,"  I  remarked,  "it  has  its  compensations. 
I  consider  my  place  with  you  a  very  good  one." 


The  Lightning  Conductor  241 

"It  can't  be  better  than  many  others  you  have 
had,"  said  she. 

"  In  some  ways  it  is  much  the  best  I  have  ever  en 
joyed,"  I  responded. 

"At  all  events,  it  isn't  half  as  good  as  you  deserve," 
the  Angel  cried  warmly.  "I  should  like  to  see  you 
in  one  far  more  desirable." 

"Thank  you,"  said  I  meekly.  "So  should  I,  of 
course,  though  I  should  wish  it  still  to  be  in  your 
service." 

"If  that  could  be,"  she  murmured,  with  a  slight 
blush  and  a  flattering  air  of  regret.  "I  don't  quite 
see  how  it  could.  But  if  you  wouldn't  mind  going 
to  America,  perhaps  my  father  might  help  you  to 
something  really  worth  while." 

"Nothing  could  be  better  for  me  than  to  have 
his  help  in  obtaining  what  I  want,"  said  I  boldly, 
knowing  she  wouldn't  suspect  the  double  mean 
ing.  "You  are  very  good  I  can't  thank  you 
enough." 

"Wait  till  I  have  done  something  to  be  thanked 
for,"  said  she.  "I  will  write  to  my  father.  But 
even  if  anything  comes  of  it,  it  can't  be  for  some 
time.  Meanwhile,  I  suppose  you  will  be  taking 
Mr.  Winston's  car  back  to  England,  when  we  part  at 
Cannes." 

"Part  at  Cannes!"  The  words  were  a  knelt 
"You  aren't  thinking,  then,  of  going  further  for  a 
trip  into  Italy?  "  I  ventured. 

"No,  I  haven't  thought  of  it,"  she  said. 

"It  does  seem  a  pity,  with  Italy  next  door,  so  to 
speak,"  said  I.  "Unless,  of  course,  you're  tired  of 


242  The  Lightning  Conductor 

motoring  and  would  like  to  settle  down  and  have 
some  gaiety." 

"I'm  not  tired  of  motoring,"  she  exclaimed,  "and 
I'm  not  pining  for  gaiety.  -I  think  this  sort  of  free, 
open-air  life,  with  big  horizons  round  one,  spoils  one 
for  dancing  and  dressing  and  flir — and  all  that. 
I  should  love  just  to  have  a  glimpse  of  the  Riviera, 
and  then  go  on.  But  I  hadn't  thought  of  it,  and 
I'm  not  sure  if  it  could  be  managed.  I'd  have  to 
reflect  upon  the  idea  a  little,  and  cable  my  father 
to  see  if  he  were  willing.  Not  that  there 'd  be  much 
trouble  about  that.  He  trusts  me,  and  almost  always 
lets  me  do  what  I  like.  But  supposing — just  suppos 
ing  I  changed  my  plans — would  Mr.  Winston  be  will 
ing  to  let  me  keep  his  car  longer?" 

"As  much  longer  as  you  choose,"  said  I  eagerly. 
"He  doesn't  want  it  in  England  till  next  summer. 
I'm  certain  of  that." 

"Well,  then,  I  must  think  it  over,"  she  answered. 
"Oh,  it  would  be  glorious!  Yet — I  don't  know. 
Anyway,  we  must  take  Lady  Brighthelmston,  Mr. 
Winston's  mother,  a  drive  on  her  son's  car  when  we 
get  to  Cannes.  She  is  staying  there." 

"Oh,  is  she?"  I  said  aloud.  And  inwardly  I 
prayed  that  I  might  see  the  lady  in  question  in 
private  before  that  invitation  was  given.  But  per 
haps  she  will  have  flitted.  I  wonder? 

Well,  I  have  given  you  the  principal  points  of  our 
conversation  enough  to  show  you  why  I  am  happy 
to-night.  But  if  you  could  have  seen  me  cutting  up 
the  Goddess's  filet  mignon!  I  could  have  shed  tears 
of  joy  on  it. 


The  Lightning  Conductor  243 

Now  I  must  be  off  to  my  own  hotel,  and  to-morrow 
I  shall  be  up  with  the  dawn  in  search  of  a  mechanic 
and  new  parts  for  the  car. 

Good-bye,  old  man.     Wish  me  luck. 

Yours  ever, 

JACK  WINSTON. 


MOLLY  RANDOLPH  TO  HER  FATHER 

HOTEL  ANGST,  BORDIGHERA, 

December   25. 

Merry  Christmas,  my  dear  Santa  Klaus,  merry 
Christmas!  This  morning  I  sent  you  a  long  cable, 
expressing  my  sentiments.  It  does  seem  strange  to 
think  that  by  this  time  you  have  it.  A  thousand 
thousand  thanks  for  your  letter  and  the  enclosure  at 
Cannes.  You  are  the  dearest  Dad! 

Our  first  Christmas  apart!  and  may  it  be  the  last. 
Christmas  isn't  Christmas  without  you  and  a  stocking 
to  hang  up,  and  I'm  awfully  homesick.  Still,  if  one 
can't  be  spirited  away  home  on  a  magic  carpet,  this 
is  the  sweetest  place  to  spend  Christmas  in  you  can 
imagine. 

Speaking  of  magic  carpets  recalls  the  Arabian 
Nights,  and  gives  me  a  simile.  For  a  whole  week 
I've  been  realising  what  Aladdin  must  have  felt  when 
the  Genie  took  him  into  the  wonderful  Cave  of 
Jewels.  Oh,  the  Riviera!  But  you  know  it,  dear. 
You  spent  your  honeymoon  with  the  beautiful  little 
mother  whom  I  never  knew  in  the  Riviera  and  in 
Italy.  That  is  one  reason  why  I  want  to  see  Italy — 
why  I  sent  that  question  to  you  by  cable  the  other 
day.  Your  one  journey  abroad,  dear,  dear  old  Dad! 
I  can  guess  now  why  you  have  never  been  keen  to 

244 


The  Lightning  Conductor  245 

come  again,  though  you  have  always  pretended  you 
preferred  Wall  Street  to  all  Europe.  Now  I  am 
seeing  these  fairylike  places  I  know  how  you  have 
wished  to  keep  the  memory  unspoiled;  for  they 
would  never,  never  be  the  same  if  you  saw  them  for 
the  second  time,  even  with  me,  though  you  do  love 
me  dearly,  don't  you?  It's  first  times  that  are  so 
thrilling;  and  I'm  having  my  first  times  now,  though 
they're  different  from  yours.  I  don't  suppose  I  shall 
ever  have  such  a  love  in  my  life  as  you  had,  or  if 
I  do,  it  will  be  sad  and  broken.  Either  the  man  I 
could  care  for  would  be  divided  from  me  by  an 
impassable  barrier,  or  something  else  horrid  will 
happen.  I  feel  that.  I  shall  never  write  like  this 
again,  but  I  can't  help  it  to-night.  There!  I  won't 
go  on  about  your  past  and  my  future  any  more;  but 
just  about  the  "winged  present."  And,  oh,  its  wings 
are  of  rainbows! 

Elderly  people  I've  talked  to  at  hotels  during  the 
last  few  days  tell  me  the  "Riviera  is  being  ruined. " 
You  would  say  so  too  perhaps;  but  it  seems  heaven 
to  me,  from  Hyeres  to  Bordighera — as  far  as  we've 
gone.  Just  here  I  must  stop  and  thank  you  for 
your  answer  to  my  cable  and  saying  "Italy  by  all 
means. "  If  it  hadn't  been  for  that,  we  shouldn't  be 
here. 

I  thought  that  we  couldn't  see  anything  more 
beautiful  than  on  the  other  side  of  Marseilles;  but 
the  Riviera  is  a  thing  apart.  I'm  gratefully  glad  to 
have  come  into  such  an  enchanted  land  of  sunshine 
and  flowers  on  an  automobile  instead  of  a  stuffy 
train.  There's  nothing  in  the  world  to  equal  travel- 


246  The  Lightning  Conductor 

ling  on  a  motor-car.  You  can  go  fast  or  slow;  you 
can  stop  where  you  like  and  as  long  as  you  like; 
with  a  little  luggage  on  your  car  you're  as  inde 
pendent  as  a  bird;  and  like  a  bird  you  float  through 
the  open  air,  with  no  thought  for  time-tables.  When 
will  the  poet  come  who  will  sing  the  song  of  the 
motor-car?  Maeterlinck  has  sung  it  in  prose,  but 
the  song  was  too  short. 

Of  course,  after  that  horrid  affair  the  other  side 
of  Toulon  I  couldn't  let  Jimmy  drive  any  more.  He 
realised  that  I  distrusted  him  and  rather  sulkily 
resigned  the  wheel,  blaming  the  car  for  the  accident 
and  declaring  that  it  could  not  have  happened  to  his 
Panhard,  which,  of  course,  is  silly.  So  Brown  took 
the  helm  again,  and  Jimmy  sat  in  the  tonnean  with 
Aunt  Mary,  where  they  whispered  and  chuckled  a 
good  deal  together,  appearing  to  have  a  real  live 
mystery  up  their  sleeves,  which  I  suppose  had  some 
thing  to  do  with  the  promised  surprise  at  Cannes. 

It  was  quite  late  in  the  day  before  the  steering- 
gear  was  mended  and  we  could  take  the  road  again, 
and  then  we  all  thought  it  a  pity  to  run  through  the 
dark  to  Cannes,  so  we  decided  to  stay  a  second  night 
in  Toulon,  at  the  same  hotel  where  I  had  dinner  with 
Brown;  he,  poor  fellow,  being  this  time  banished  to 
some  invisible  lower  region,  or  another  hotel,  for 
Aunt  Mary  and  Jimmy  would  have  had  fits  if  I  had 
proposed  that  he  should  make  a  fourth  at  our  table. 
I  thought  the  people  of  the  hotel  and  the  head 
waiter  looked  curiously  at  me;  for  one  night  they 
saw  me  dine  with  a  gentleman  who  the  next  night 
drives  to  the  door  as  my  chauffeur  (I  assure  you, 


The  Lightning  Conductor  247 

Dad,  it's  no  stretch  of  language  to  speak  of  Brown 
as  a  "gentleman,"  and  you  really  must  get  him  a 
gentleman's  berth,  even  if  it's  way  off  in  Klondyke). 

Early  next  morning  we  started  for  what  proved 
to  be  the  most  beautiful  drive  we  have  yet  had,  as 
warm  as  summer,  and  sparkling  with  sunshine.  We 
bowled  along  at  a  gentle  pace  through  a  fairyland 
of  flowers  and  rivers,  with  billowy  blue  mountains 
rising  into  the  sky,  and  showing  here  and  there  a 
distant  ethereal  peak  of  snow.  Very  soon  we  passed 
through  Hyeres,  which  Brown  called  the  gate  of  the 
Riviera,  and  I  should  have  liked  to  turn  aside  for 
a  peep  at  Costebelle,  which  Brown  thinks  one  of  the 
loveliest  places  of  all.  But  Aunt  Mary  and  Jimmy 
both  opposed  me,  saying  that  we  ought  to  get  on 
as  soon  as  possible  to  Cannes — "to  Cannes"  was 
their  constant  cry. 

Beyond  Hyeres  the  road  became  more  and  more 
superb.  We  were  travelling  now  along  the  moun 
tains  of  the  Moors,  gliding  through  groves  of  oak 
and  woods  of  shimmering  grey-green  olives,  with 
glimpses  of  the  glittering  sea  on  our  right  hand. 
Presently  the  way  dipped  to  the  verge  of  the  sea 
as  far  as  Frejus,  from  which  place  it  rose  again  to 
wind  up  and  up  into  the  heart  of  the  Esterels.  Though 
we  mounted  many  hundreds  of  feet,  the  road  was 
so  well  engineered  that  gradients  were  not  very 
trying.  Our  agreeable  Napier,  at  any  rate,  made 
nothing  of  them,  but  simply  flew  up  at  twelve  or 
fourteen  miles  an  hour.  And  the  descent  on  the 
other  side!  My  heart  comes  into  my  mouth  when 
I  think  of  it.  "It's  quite  safe,"  said  Brown;  but  it 


248  The  Lightning  Conductor 

looked  the  most  breakneck  thing  in  the  world,  and 
my  very  toes  seemed  to  curl  up,  not  with  fear,  but 
with  a  kind  of  awful  joy.  I  think  when  a  bird  takes 
its  great  swoops  through  the  air  it  must  feel  like 
we  felt  that  day.  The  car  bounded  down  the  long 
lengths  of  looped  road,  slowed  up  a  little  at  the 
turns  (where  we  all  had  to  throw  our  bodies  side 
ways,  like  sailors  hanging  over  the  gunwale  of  a 
racing  yacht),  bounded  forward  again  so  that  the 
wind  rushed  by  our  ears  like  a  hurricane,  slowed  up 
once  more,  and  so  by  a  series  of  these  magnificent 
bird-like  swoops  reached  the  level  ground.  It  was 
a  fine  piece  of  driving  on  Brown's  part,  needing 
nerve,  judgment,  and  a  perfect  knowledge  of  the 
capabilities  of  his  car.  I  had  scarcely  recovered  from 
the  tingling  joy  of  this  wild  mountain  descent  when 
we  were  in  Cannes,  driving  up  an  avenue  to  our 
hotel. 

It  was  a  charming  house,  and  I  fell  in  love  with 
Cannes  at  first  sight;  but  would  you  believe  it? 
Jimmy's  wonderful  surprise  never  came  off  at  all! — 
and  he  wouldn't  even  tell  me  what  it  was.  Aunt 
Mary  wanted  to;  but  he  got  quite  red,  and  said, 
"No,  Miss  Kedison,  it  may  make  me  a  great  deal 
of  trouble  if  you  say  anything — at  present.  The 
whole  position  is  changed. "  I  think  mysteries  are 
silly. 

By  the  way,  you  remember  my  telling  you  about 
the  nice  Lady  Brighthelmston  I  met  in  Paris,  on  her 
way  to  the  Riviera — the  mother  of  the  Honourable 
John  who  owns  our  Napier?  She  was  going  to  stay 
at  this  very  hotel,  and  I  thought  it  would  be  rather 


The  Lightning  Conductor  249 

nice  to  see  her  again.  I  meant  to  ask,  when  we 
arrived  at  the  hotel,  if  she  were  there;  but  to  my 
surprise  Aunt  Mary  remembered  to  do  it  before  I 
did,  and  she  and  Jimmy  both  seemed  eager  to  find 
out.  We  had  hardly  got  into  the  big,  beautiful  hall, 
when  they  began  to  ply  the  manager  with  questions, 
and  Jimmy  looked  quite  crestfallen  when  he  was 
told  that  she  had  just  gone  on  to  Rome.  He  is  rather 
fond  of  what  he  calls  "swells,"  but  I  hadn't  fancied 
from  what  he  said  before  that  he  knew  Lady  Bright- 
helmston  very  well,  or  cared  particularly  about  meet 
ing  her. 

"Most  annoying!"  he  exclaimed  crossly,  glaring 
at  the  manager  as  if  it  were  his  fault.  "And  has 
the  Honourable  John  Winston,  her  son,  been  here 
also?" 

"No,"  said  the  manager.  "Lady  Brighthelmston 
was  with  friends,  an  old  gentleman  and  his  daughter. 
But  I  understood  that  her  ladyship's  son  was  expected 
and  that  she  was  disappointed  he  did  not  arrive 
before  she  and  her  party  went  away.  Lady  Bright 
helmston  left  a  letter  for  Mr.  Winston,"  and  he 
pointed  to  a  letter  in  the  rack  close  by  the  office 
addressed  in  a  large  handwriting  to  the  Honourable 
John  Winston. 

I  was  quite  frightened  when  I  heard  that  the 
owner  of  my  car  was  expected  to  arrive  in  Cannes, 
for  Brown  was  so  certain  that  he  was  in  England; 
yet  here  he  might  walk  in  at  any  moment  to  say 
that  he'd  changed  his  mind  and  wanted  back  his 
Napier.  Just  as  I  was  thinking  of  going  on  to  Italy 
in  it,  too!  Why,  the  very  thought  that  maybe  I 


250  The  Lightning  Conductor 

should  have  to  lose  the  car  made  me  long  to  keep  it 
all  the  more. 

I  was  gazing  reproachfully  at  the  letter  and 
wondering  if  we  hadn't  better  hurry  away  from 
Cannes  before  the  H.  J.  turned  up,  when  I  saw 
Aunt  Mary  lay  her  hand  on  Jimmy's  arm  in  a  warn 
ing  kind  of  way,  as  if  she  wanted  to  keep  him  from 
saying  something  he  had  begun  to  say.  At  that 
moment  I  found  that  Brown  was  at  my  elbow, 
though  whether  Aunt  Mary's  warning  to  Jimmy 
had  anything  to  do  with  him  or  not  I  don't  know. 
I  don't  see  why  it  should,  but  she  did  look  rather 
funny.  Brown  had  come  in  to  bring  me  my  dear 
little  gold-netted  purse  with  my  monogram  in 
rubies  and  diamonds  that  you  gave  me  just  before 
I  started.  I'd  dropped  it  off  my  lap  when  I  got 
out  of  the  car,  so  you  see  I'm  as  bad  about  that 
as  ever.  I  thanked  Brown,  and  then  drawing  him 
aside  a  little,  I  told  him  about  Mr.  Winston  and 
what  I  was  afraid  of.  He  was  as  sure  as  ever  that 
his  old  master  wouldn't  turn  up  to  spoil  sport, 
though  I  pointed  out  the  letter;  and  it's  a  funny 
thing  that  the  Hon.  J.'s  ex- chauffeur  should  be  kept 
more  in  touch  with  his  movements  than  his  own 
mother.  However,  that's  not  my  business. 

That  afternoon  Aunt  Mary,  Jimmy,  and  I  had  a 
lovely  walk  in  Cannes  by  the  sea.  We  had  tea  at 
a  fascinating  confectioner's  called  Rumpelma^rer, 
and  a  long  time  afterwards  dined  at  a  perfect  dream 
of  a  little  restaurant  built  out  into  the  sea — the 
Restaurant  de  la  Reserve,  something  like  the  one  in 
Marseilles.  I  wonder  if  they  were  here  in  your  day, 


The  Lightning  Conductor  251 

Dad?  There  are  pens  in  the  water  built  up  with 
walls,  and  lobsters  and  other  creatures  are  swimming 
unsuspectingly  about  in  them.  You  select  your  own 
fish,  and  in  a  few  minutes  the  poor  thing,  so  happy  a 
little  while  ago,  is  on  the  table  exquisitely  cooked 
with  its  own  appropriate  sauce.  It  seems  sad.  Still, 
one  does  give  them  honourable  burial,  and  they 
couldn't  expect  to  live  for  ever.  I  let  Jimmy  choose 
mine,  though,  and  while  he  and  Aunt  Mary  dis 
cussed  the  langouste  I  leaned  on  the  railing  looking 
out  over  the  bay.  You  will  remember  that  scene — 
all  the  twinkling  lights  of  the  town,  and  the  tumbled 
mass  of  the  Esterel  mountains,  sombre  and  strange, 
across  the  sea. 

At  dinner  I  began  to  hint  to  Aunt  Mary  about 
going  on  to  Italy,  but  I  was  rather  sorry  I'd  said 
anything,  for  Jimmy  caught  me  up  like  a  flash,  and 
exclaimed  that  if  we  did  make  up  our  minds  to  such 
a  trip,  he  would  like  to  keep  us  company  on  his 
Panhard,  which  he  should  no  doubt  find  waiting  for 
him  at  Nice.  Aunt  Mary  asked  if  we  should  be 
likely  to  meet  Lord  Lane,  as  she  had  heard  Jimmy 
talk  so  often  of  his  friend  Montie  that  she  quite 
longed  to  know  him.  She  loves  a  lord,  poor  Aunt 
Mary,  and  her  face  fell  several  inches  when  Jimmy 
answered  that  Montie  was  a  very  retiring  chap,  shy 
with  ladies,  and  might  make  a  point  of  keeping  out 
of  the  way.  When  we  got  home  to  the  hotel  I  had 
such  a  start.  The  Honourable  John's  letter  was 
gone  out  of  the  rack.  I  made  sure  that  all  would  now 
be  over  between  the  Napier  and  me,  unless  I  could  get 
so  far  awav  with  it  that  he'd  sooner  hire  another  than 


252  The  Lightning  Conductor 

follow  up  his;  and  anyway,  if  we  disappeared  he 
wouldn't  know  where  to  find  us.  I  suppose  that  was 
very  bad  and  sly  of  me,  wasn't  it?  I  sent  word  to 
Brown  that  we'd  start  at  nine  o'clock  next  morning; 
and  wasn't  it  a  joke  on  me,  after  we'd  been  on  the 
road  for  a  while  I  told  him  what  had  happened,  and 
it  turned  out  that  hed  taken  the  letter  to  re- address 
to  his  master? 

Just  before  we  started  Jimmy  said  he'd  had  a  wire 
from  Lord  Lane  that  his  car  was  waiting  for  him  at 
the  garage  in  the  Boulevard  Gambetta  at  Nice,  and 
we  went  there  after  our  splendid  drive  from  Cannes, 
as  Brown  knew  about  the  place,  and  thought  it  would 
be  convenient  to  leave  our  Napier  there. 

We  sent  our  luggage  by  cab  to  our  hotel,  lunched 
at  a  delightful  restaurant,  and  in  the  afternoon,  said 
Jimmy  gaily,  "I'll  race  you  to  Monte  and  back  with 
my  Panhard."  I  knew  in  a  minute  what  he  meant, 
but  Aunt  Mary  thought  he  was  talking  about  his 
everlasting  Lord  Lane,  and  was  so  disappointed  to 
find  it  was  only  Monte  Carlo.  His  Montie,  he  ex 
plained,  was  seedy  and  confined  to  bed  but  he 
hoped  we  wouldn't  mention  this  before  Brown,  as 
Lord  Lane  didn't  want  his  friend  Jack  Winston  to 
hear  that  he  had  come  to  the  Riviera  without  letting 
him  know. 

So  after  lunch  we  started  away  from  glittering, 
flowery  blue  and  white  and  golden  Nice  by  the  most 
glorious  coast  road  for  Monte  Carlo,  But  you  know 
it  well,  dear  Dad,  I  suppose  there  can  be  nothing 
more  beautiful  on  earth.  And  Monte  Carlo  is  beau 
tiful;  but  somehow  its  beauty  doesn't  seem  real  and 


The  Lightning  Conductor  253 

wholesome  and  natural,  does  it?  It's  like  a  mag 
nificently  handsome  woman  who  is  radiant  at  night, 
and  doesn't  look  suitable  to  morning  light,  because 
then  you  see  that  her  hair  and  eyelashes  are  dyed  and 
her  complexion  cleverly  made  up.  If  Monte  Carlo 
could  be  concentrated  and  condensed  into  the  form 
of  a  real  woman,  I  think  she  would  be  the  kind  who 
uses  lots  of  scent  and  doesn't  often  take  a  bath. 

We  wandered  about  among  the  shops  and  saw  the 
most  lovely  things,  but  somehow  I  didn't  "feel  to 
want"  any  of  them,  as  my  nurse  used  to  say.  I 
couldn't  help  associating  all  the  smart  hats  and 
dresses  and  jewels  in  the  windows  with  the  terrible 
hawk  faces  painted  to  look  like  doves,  which  kept 
passing  us  in  the  streets  or  the  Casino  gardens,  in 
stead  of  thinking  whether  the  things  would  be  pretty 
on  me. 

Jimmy  knows  "Monte"  very  well,  and  was  in 
clined  to  swagger  about  his  knowledge.  There's  one 
thing  which  I  am  compelled  to  admit  that  he  can  do 
— order  a  dinner.  He  took  us  to  a  restaurant,  led 
aside  the  head  waiter,  talked  with  him  for  a  few  min 
utes,  and  announcing  that  dinner  would  be  ready 
when  we  wanted  it,  pioneered  us  across  to  "the 
rooms."  I'd  seen  so  many  pictures  of  the  Casino 
that  it  didn't  come  upon  me  as  a  surprise.  The  first 
thing  that  struck  me  was  the  overpowering  deadness 
of  the  air,  which  felt  as  if  generations  of  people  had 
breathed  all  the  oxygen  out  of  it,  and  the  ominous, 
muffled  silence,  broken  only  by  the  sharp  chink! 
chink!  of  the  croupiers'  rakes  as  they  pulled  in  the 
money. 


254  The  Lightning  Conductor 

Jimmy  insisted  on  staking  a  louis  for  me  and  an 
other  for  Aunt  Mary,  who  was  enraptured  when  she 
won  thirteen  louis,  and  would  have  given  up  dinner 
to  go  on  playing  if  she  hadn't  lost  her  winnings  and 
more  besides. 

When  we  sat  down  to  our  table  at  the  restaurant 
she  was  quite  depressed,  but  everything  was  so 
bright  and  gay  that  she  soon  cheered  up.  Our 
tablecloth  was  strewn  all  over  with  roses  and  huge 
bluey-purple  violets,  and  the  dinner  was  pluperfect. 
There  was  a  great  coming  and  going  of  overdressed 
women  and  rather  loud  young  men,  which  amused 
me,  but  I  think  it  would  soon  pall.  I  can't  imagine 
any  feeling  of  rest  or  peace  at  Monte  Carlo,  not  even 
in  the  gardens.  To  stop  long  in  the  place  would  be 
like  always  breathing  perfume  or  eating  spice. 

We  had  finished  dinner,  and  Jimmy  was  payinr 
che  bill  (I  couldn't  help  seeing  that  it  was  of  enor 
mous  length),  when  the  scraping  of  chairs  behind 
us  advertised  that  a  new  party  had  arrived  at  the 
table  back  of  ours.  A  noisy,  loud-talking  party  it 
was — all  men,  by  the  voices,  and  one  of  those  voices 
sounded  remotely  familiar.  The  owner  of  it  seemed 
to  be  telling  an  amusing  story,  which  had  been  in 
terrupted  by  entering  the  restaurant  and  taking 
seats.  "Well,  she  simply  jumped  at  it  like  a  trout 
at  a  mayfly,"  the  man  was  saying,  as  I  sat  wonder 
ing  where  I'd  heard  the  voice  before.  "I  couldn't 
help  feeling  a  bit  of  a  beast  to  impose  on  Yankee 
innocence.  But  all's  fair  in  love  and  motor-cars. 
This  was  the  most  confounded  thing  ever  designed; 


The  Lightning  Conductor  255 

a  kind  of  ironmonger's  shop  on  wheels.  And  the 
girl  was  deuced  pretty " 

The  word  " motor-car"  brought  it  all  back,  and 
in  a  flash  I  crossed  Europe  from  the  restaurant  in 
Monte  Carlo  to  the  village  hotel  at  Cobham.  1 
looked  round  and  into  the  face  of  Mr.  Ceoil-Lanstown. 

Aunt  Mary  looked  too,  for  the  bill  was  paid,  and 
we  were  getting  up  to  go.  Our  eyes  met  in  the 
midst  of  his  sentence;  the  man  half  rose,  but  dropped 
down  again  with  a  silly  smile,  and  I  gave  him  one  of 
those  elaborate  glances  that  begin  with  a  person's 
boots  and  work  slowly  up  to  the  necktie.  Just  as 
we  were  sweeping  past  Aunt  Mary  said  in  a  loud 
aside  to  me,  "Did  you  ever  see  such  a  creature? 
And  I  took  him  for  a  duke."  I  think  he  heard. 

In  the  Casino  gardens  we  saw  the  moon  rise  out 
of  the  sea.  and  never  shall  I  forget  the  glory  of  it. 
But  just  the  very  beauty  of  everything  made  me 
feel  sad.  So  stupid  of  me.  I  really  don't  think  I 
can  be  well  lately.  I  must  take  a  tonic  or  a  nerve 
pill.  We  went  back  to  Nice  for  the  night,  and  next 
morning  we  drove  to  Mentone,  where  I  decided  that 
I  would  rather  stay  for  a  long  time  than  anywhere 
else  on  the  Riviera.  It  is  just  the  sweetest,  dearest 
little  picture-place,  with  the  natural,  country  peace- 
fulness  that  others  lack,  and  yet  there's  all  the  gaiety 
and  life  of  a  town.  We  drove  to  it  along  the  upper 
road,  which  is  almost  startlingly  magnificent  I 
asked  Brown  to  go  slowly,  so  that  we  might  sip  the 
scenery  instead  of  bolting  it.  Though  the  Napier 
could  have  gone  romping  up  the  steep  road  out  of 
Nice  to  the  Observatory,  and  on  to  quaint  La  Tur- 


256  The  Lightning  Conductor 

bie,  I  chose  a  pace  of  six  or  seven  miles  an  hour, 
often  stopping  at  picturesque  corners  to  drink  in 
sapphire  draughts  of  sea  and  sky.  Coming  this  way 
from  Nice  to  Mentone  we  skipped  Monte  Carlo  al 
together,  only  looking  down  from  La  Turbie  on  its 
roofs,  on  the  glittering  Casino,  and  the  gloomy, 
rock-set  castle  of  Monaco. 

And,  oh,  by  the  way,  Jimmy  wasn't  with  us  on 
that  drive,  nor  has  he  joined  us  yet,  though  he 
threatens  to  (if  that  word  isn't  too  ungracious)  a 
little  farther  on  in  Italy.  He  stayed  behind  in  Nice 
to  take  care  of  Lord  Lane.  Aunt  Mary  thinks  that 
shows  such  a  sweet  disposition;  but  I'm  not  sure. 
I  believe  that  Montie  is  a  marquis.  . 

We  stopped  near  Mentone,  at  Cap  Martin,  which 
of  course  you  don't  know,  as  it's  rather  new.  And 
it  was  lovely  there,  up  high  on  a  hill,  among  sweet- 
smelling  pines.  It  was  pleasant  to  be  alone  with 
Aunt  Mary  again,  and  I  was  nicer  to  her  than  I  have 
been,  I'm  afraid,  since  Pau  and  Jimmy.  I  should 
have  loved  to  stay  a  long  while  (and  it  would  be 
jolly  to  come  back  for  the  carnival,  though  I  don't 
suppose  we  shall),  but  there  was  such  a  thrill  in  the 
thought  of  Italy  being  near  that  I  grew  restless. 
Italy!  Italy!  I  heard  the  name  ringing  in  my  ears 
like  the  "horns  of  elfland." 

Now  we  are  in  it — Italy,  I  mean,  not  elfland, 
though  it  seems  much  the  same  to  unsophisticated 
me  for  mystery  and  colour;  and  it  is  good  to  have 
warm-hearted  Christmas  for  our  first  day.  The  one 
jarring  note  in  the  Italian  "entrance  music"  was  at 
the  frontier.  I  think  I  wrote  you  how  when  we 


The  TLightaing  Conductor  257 

landed  at  Dieppe  from  England,  about  a  hundred 
years  ago,  I  had  to  pay  a  deposit  to  the  custom 
house  for  the  right  to  take  my  car  into  France. 
That  money  I  should  have  got  back  at  Mentone  on 
leaving  the  country  if  the  late-lamented  Dragon  had 
still  been  in  existence,  but  as  it  vanished  in  smoke 
and  flame  the  money  has  vanished  too.  Brown, 
however  (or,  rather,  Brown's  master),  paid  a  similar 
deposit  on  the  Napier,  and  passing  the  French  cus 
tom-house  on  the  outskirts  of  Mentone,  the  Light 
ning  Conductor  asked  my  permission  to  stop,  that 
he  might  present  Mr.  Winston's  papers  and  get  the 
money  back  to  send  to  England. 

So  far,  so  good;  but  it  was  dusk  when  we  left  the 
Cap  Martin  (as  we'd  spent  the  day  in  exploring 
Mentone),  and  the  custom-house  people  have  de 
tained  us  some  time;  it  was  dark,  cloudy,  and  windy 
when  we  moved  on  again  towards  Italy.  A  douanier 
mounted  by  Brown's  side  (I  was  with  Aunt  Mary 
in  the  tonneau)  to  conduct  us  to  the  last  French  post, 
where  we  dropped  him;  and  in  few  yards  farther 
we  were  in  Italy.  Maybe  you  remember  that  the 
frontier  is  marked  by  a  wild  chasm,  cleft  in  the  high 
mountains  which  hurl  themselves  down  to  the  very 
margin  of  the  sea.  Over  the  splendid  chasm  is  the 
Pont  St.  Louis,  and  through  the  very  middle  of  the 
stone  bridge  runs  the  invisible  "frontier  line." 

I  thought  I  saw  a  sentry-box  on  the  Italian  side, 
but  it  was  too  dark  to  be  sure;  and  one  has  to  go 
a  good  way  up  the  steep  mountain  road  before  one 
reaches  the  office  of  the  douane.  Here  Brown  pulled 
up,  as  two  slouching  men  in  blue-grey  overcoats, 


258  The  Lightning  Conductor 

with  rifles  slung  over  their  backs,  came  forward  to 
meet  us.  Our  Lightning  Conductor  is  always  very 
courteous  in  dealing  with  foreign  officials.  He  says 
it  "smooths  things";  and  now,  seeing  that  the  men 
intended  to  stop  us,  he  politely  expressed  the  wish 
to  pass,  offering  to  pay  whatever  deposit  was  de 
manded.  Though  I  have  only  the  smallest  smat 
tering  of  Italian,  I  could  understand  pretty  well 
what  followed.  The  men  refused  to  let  us  pass. 
Brown  argued  the  matter;  he  produced  a  pass 
port,  which  the  two  men  inspected  by  the  light 
of  a  lantern.  They  appeared  impressed,  but  still 
refused  us  passage,  saying  that  the  office  was  closed 
for  the  night,  that  the  chief  had  gone,  and  that 
there  was  no  one  who  could  make  out  the  necessary 
papers.  "But  it  is  monstrous!  "  cried  Brown.  "Is 
this  Italian  hospitality?  Do  you  suggest  that  the 
ladies  should  remain  here  on  the  road  till  morn 
ing?  "  The  douaniers  shrugged  their  shoulders. 
"There  are  plenty  of  good  hotels  in  Mentone,"  said 
one.  "Go  back  there." 

"No,"  said  Brown,  "I  will  not  go  back.  Where 
does  the  chief  of  the  bureau  live?  "  The  douaniers 
refused  to  tell.  Clearly  they  did  not  want  a  "wig 
ging"  for  letting  loose  an  imperious  Englishman 
upon  their  chief,  reposing  after  his  dinner.  By 
this  time  an  interested  crowd  of  ten  or  twelve  persons 
had  assembled,  their  shadowy  forms  seeming  to  rise 
out  of  the  ground.  I  heard  a  voice  in  French  whis 
per  into  my  ear,  "I  am  of  France,  and  all  these 
Italians  are  pigs.  The  chef  de  douane  lives  in 
Mortola,  the  first  village  up  the  road";  and  before 


The  Lightning  Conductor  259 

I  could  look  round  to  thank  him,  the  friendly  French 
man  was  swallowed  up  in  darkness.  I  called  Brown 
and  gave  him  the  news.  He  asked  if  we  minded 
being  left  alone  while  he  went  to  fetch  the  chief, 
saying  we  should  be  quite  safe  in  charge  of  the 
douaniers;  and  on  our  agreeing  strode  off  up  the 
steep  road,  one  of  the  guards  immediately  padding 
silently  after  him.  We  sat  and  waited  perhaps  half 
an  hour  on  the  threshold  of  Italy,  our  lamps  casting 
their  rays  into  the  country  we  were  forbidden  to 
enter,  when  I  heard  Brown's  voice  and  the  sound 
of  footsteps.  By  some  persuasion  he  had  induced 
the  chef  de  douane  to  return  with  him.  The  office 
doors  were  thrown  open,  the  gas  was  lighted,  the 
necessary  papers  were  made  out,  the  deposit  paid, 
and  then,  at  Brown's  invitation,  the  agreeable  official 
mounted  into  the  car,  and  we  ran  quickly  up  the  hill 
to  his  house. 

It  was  a  thrilling  drive  from  the  frontier  to 
Bordighera.  A  great  wind  coming  salt  off  the  sea 
was  moaning  along  the  face  of  the  mountains,  com 
pletely  drowning  the  comforting  hum  of  our  motor. 
The  road  mounted  up  and  up,  terrific  gusts  striking 
the  car  as  it  came  out  into  exposed  places.  Far 
below  we  heard  the  thunder  of  mighty  waves  dashing 
on  the  rock.  Then  we  began  to  descend  a  steep  and 
twisting  road  that  led  up  presently  to  low  ground, 
not  much  above  the  sea,  where  the  wind  shrieked 
down  the  funnel  of  a  river-bed.  Then  up  again 
along  another  face  of  cliff  under  cyclopean  walls  of 
masonry,  and  down  a  sudden  shoot  between  houses 
into  the  old,  old  town  of  Ventimiglia;  across  a  river 


260  The  Lightning  Conductor 

and  a  plain,  to  be  pulled  up  presently  by  a  very 
dangerous  obstacle — a  huge  beam  of  wood,  unlighted, 
and  swung  across  the  road  to  guard  a  level  crossing. 
Our  great  acetylene  eye,  glaring  ahead,  gave  Brown 
ample  warning,  and  we  slowed  down,  then  stopped, 
while  a  train  thundered  past.  Very  deliberately  a 
signalman  presently  came  to  push  the  barrier  aside, 
and  we  darted  on  through  a  long,  straggling  village, 
turned  away  from  the  sea,  found  a  large  iron  gate 
with  a  lamp  over  it,  standing  hospitably  open,  and 
twisting  through  a  fairy-like  garden  studded  with 
gigantic  palms,  drew  up  in  a  flood  of  light  that 
poured  from  the  door  of  a  large  white  hotel.  To  walk 
into  the  big,  bright  hall,  to  hear  pleasant  English 
voices,  to  see  nice  men  and  pretty  girls  dressed  for 
dinner  and  waiting  for  the  stroke  of  the  gong,  was  an 
extraordinary  contrast  to  the  roaring  blackness  of  the 
night  outside.  Everyone  turned  to  stare  at  us  as  we 
came  in  masked  and  goggled  like  divers. 

This  morning  I  waked  up  and  looked  out  of  my 
window  a  little  before  seven.  It  was  just  sunrise 
and  the  wind  had  died.  Under  my  eyes  lay  the 
garden,  lovely  as  Eden,  garlands  of  roses  looped 
from  orange  trees  to  palms;  banks  of  heliotrope,  and 
sweetness  unutterable.  Then,  a  waving  sea  of  palms, 
with  here  and  there  the  glow  of  a  scarlet  roof,  and 
beyond  the  sea.  The  rising  sun  shone  on  it  and 
on  the  curved  line  of  coast,  with  Monte  Carlo  and 
Mentone  gleaming  like  pearl.  Floating  up  on  the 
horizon  I  saw  a  shadowy  blue  shape  of  an  island, 
hovering  like  a  ghost,  and  as  I  looked  it  vanished 
suddenly  as  a  broken  bubble,  leaving  the  sea  blank. 


The  Lightning  Conductor  261 

I  thought  it  must  have  been  a  mirage;  but  by-and- 
by  a  soft-speaking,  fawn-eyed  maid  called  Apollonia 
told  me  it  was  Corsica,  which  only  shows  itself 
sometimes  early  in  the  morning  when  the  sun  is  at 
a  certain  height  and  usually  after  a  storm. 

We  breakfasted  in  our  sitting-room,  with  delicious 
honey  for  our  crisp  rolls,  and  afterwards,  when  I  went 
downstairs  to  send  your  cable,  I  found  the  hall  smell 
ing  like  a  forest  of  balsam  firs.  It  was  decorated 
for  Christmas,  and  the  whole  hotel  seemed  full  of 
a  sort  of  joyous,  Christmas  stir,  so  that  it  was  more 
like  a  jolly,  big  country-house  than  a  hotel. 

Then  I  found  out  that  this  hotel  is  famous  for 
its  Christmas  celebration.  Everyone  stopping  there 
was  supposed  to  be  the  landlord's  guest  at  a  wonder 
ful  dinner,  a  regular  feast,  with  dozens  of  courses, 
ending  up  with  crackers,  which  we  all  pulled.  Last 
of  all  the  dining-room  was  darkened,  and  a  long 
procession  of  waiters  glided  in  bearing  illuminated 
ices — green,  crimson,  gold,  and  rose.  We  clapped 
our  hands  and  laughed,  just  like  children,  and  the 
landlord  had  to  make  a  little  speech.  Altogether 
everything  was  so  friendly  and  Christmasy  that  the 
most  gloomy  misanthrope  could  not  have  felt  home 
sick.  I  supposed  when  dinner  was  over  that  the 
special  festivities  were  at  an  end.  But  no,  quite  the 
contrary.  Everyone  trooped  into  a  huge  picture- 
panelled  recreation-room,  which  had  been  the  scene 
of  secret  preparation  all  day,  and  there  was  a  giant 
Christmas-tree,  sparkling  with  pretty  decorations, 
and  heavy  with  presents  for  each  person  in  the  hotel, 
all  provided  by  the  landlord.  We  drew  them  with 


2,62  The  Lightning  Conductor 

numbars,  and  I  got  a  charming  inlaid,  box  with  a 
secret  opening;  Aunt  Mary  had  a  little  silver  vase. 
There  was  music,  too;  harps  and  violins.  I  was 
sorry  that  poor  Brown  was  cut  off  from  all  the  fun. 
But  I  did  give  him  a  present.  You  know  he  refuses 
tips,  so  I  couldn't  offer  him  money;  but  the  other 
day  at  Cannes  he  was  looking  rather  worried,  and 
it  turned  out  that  something — I  didn't  understand 
exactly  what,  for  he  was  rather  vague  in  his  answers 
— had  happened  to  his  watch.  I  didn't  say  much 
then,  but  in  Monte  Carlo  I  bought  him  quite  a 
decent  one  for  fifty  dollars  (he  really  does  deserve 
it),  and  gave  it  to  him  this  morning  with  a  "merry 
Christmas."  You've  no  idea  how  pleased  he  was. 
He  seemed  quite  touched. 

There!  a  bell  somewhere  is  striking  midnight. 
Good-bye,  dearest.  My  thoughts  have  been  full  of 
you  all  day. 

Your 

MOLLY. 


JIMMY  PAYNE  TO  CHAUNCEY  RANDOLPH 

GRAND  HOTEL,  ROME,  December  27. 

Dear  Mr.  Randolph, 

I  find  myself  in  a  difficult  position,  but  I  am 
going  to  take  the  bull  by  the  horns  and  write  to 
you  of  certain  things  which  seem  to  me  of  import 
ance.  I  trust  to  your  friendship  and  your  knowledge 
of  my  feelings  and  desires  towards  Molly  to  excuse 
me  if  you  consider  that  I  am  being  officious.  You 
will  understand  when  I  have  explained  that  I  cannot 
hope  to  make  her  see  the  matter  in  its  true  light; 
but  you,  as  a  man  and  her  father,  will  do  so,  and 
will  comprehend  that  my  motive  is  for  her  protection. 

I  have  thanked  you  already  for  answering  my 
letter,  in  which  I  begged  that  you  would  let  me  know 
in  which  part  of  Europe  Molly  was  travelling,  and 
she  has  told  me  that  she  wrote  you  of  our  meeting 
at  Pau.  I  reached  there  a  couple  of  days  sooner 
than  she  and  Miss  Kedison  did.  In  fact,  I  saw 
their  arrival  in  the  famous  automobile  of  whose 
adventures  you  must  have  heard  much.  The  min 
ute  my  eyes  lighted  upon  the  chauffeur  I  felt  an  in 
stinctive  distrust  of  the  man,  and  I  have  learned 
through  experience  not  to  disregard  the  warnings 

263 


264  The  Lightning  Conductor 

of  my  instinct.  It  has  served  me  more  than  one 
good  turn  in  the  street  when  the  markets  were 
wobbling.  Now  I  have  been  a  good  deal  chaffed 
about  a  resemblance  to  Sherlock  Holmes,  the  great 
detective  of  fiction,  but  I  acknowledge  and  am  proud 
of  that  resemblance.  I  venture  to  think  that  it  is 
not  wholly  confined  to  externals.  A  certain  detec 
tive  instinct  was  born  in  me.  It  began  to  show  itself 
when  I  was  a  little  boy  at  school,  and  since  then  I 
have  trained  and  cultivated  it,  as  a  kind  of  higher 
education  of  the  brain.  In  several  instances  I  have 
been  able  to  expose  frauds,  which,  but  for  the  purely 
impersonal,  scientific  interest  I  took  in  the  affairs, 
might  have  remained  undetected.  In  these  experi 
ments  I  have  made  enemies  of  course;  but  what 
matter? 

The  interest  I  feel  in  the  case  I  am  about  to  lay 
bare  to  you  is  not,  I  confess,  purely  impersonal. 
But  I  hope  under  the  circumstances  you  will  think 
none  the  less  of  me  for  that. 

My  first  distant  glimpse  of  the  man  Brown  created, 
as  I  have  said,  an  unfavourable  impression  upon  my 
mind.  I  thought  that  he  had  a  swaggering  air  of 
conceit  and  self-importance  extremely  unbecoming 
in  a  man  of  his  class.  He  had  the  air  of  thinking 
himself  equal  to  his  betters,  which  is  a  dangerous 
thing  in  a  person  entrusted  with  the  care  of  ladies. 
My  impression  was  confirmed  by  some  of  the  tales 
which  Molly  told  me  of  her  automobile  experiences, 
not  only  quite  unconscious  that  they  militated 
against  her  chauffeur,  but  apparently  believing  them 
to  his  credit.  I  began  to  fear  that  the  fellow  was  one 


The  Lightning  Conductor  265 

to  take  advantage  of  the  trust  placed  in  him  by  two 
unprotected  women,  whom  he  doubtless  has  guessed 
to  be  well  provided  with  money.  My  definite  sus 
picions  went  at  first  no  further  than  this,  though 
there  was  a  kind  of  detective  premonition  in  my 
mind  that  more  might  remain  to  be  found  out.  I 
might  have  confined  myself  to  tacit  disapproval, 
however,  or  a  word  of  advice  to  Molly,  and  perhaps 
one  stern  warning  to  the  man,  had  I  not  gone  into 
the  golf  club  at  Pau  on  our  last  day  there.  To  my 
intense  astonishment  I  saw  Brown  on  the  links 
attempting  to  get  members  to  play  with  him  by 
passing  himself  off  as  a  gentleman.  He  wore  good 
clothes,  and  acted  his  part  fairly  well — well  enough, 
perhaps  to  deceive  the  unobservant.  But  he  is  not 
the  sort  of  person  I  should  ever  mistake  for  a  gentle 
man.  I  went  up  to  him,  and  very  quietly  ordered 
him  off  the  links,  threatening  to  expose  him  pub 
licly.  But  he  whined  for  mercy,  and  I,  in  a  moment 
of  weak  good  nature,  let  him  off,  on  his  promise  to 
go  at  once.  I  inquired,  however,  of  the  steward  what 
name  he  had  given  on  seeking  admittance,  and  was 
startled  to  find  that  he  had  passed  himself  off  as 
the  Honourable  John  Winston,  his  late  master  and 
the  owner  of  the  car  which  Molly  is  now  using.  As 
I  had  bound  myself  to  keep  silence,  I  did  not  betray 
him,  but  the  fact  just  discovered  confirmed  my 
distrust  of  the  man  as  a  dangerous  and  unscrupulous 
person. 

For  Molly's  sake  I  felt  that  I  must  begin  inves 
tigation,  so  as  to  be  able  in  the  end  to  expose 
Brown  apd  let  laer  see  him  in  his  real  character; 


266  The  Lightning  Conductor 

but  for  several  reasons  not  necessary  to  trouble 
you  with  it  was  essential  to  proceed  with  extreme 
caution. 

It  was  unbearable  to  me,  knowing  even  the  little 
I  did  know  at  that  time  of  the  man's  character  to 
allow  Molly  and  Miss  Kedison  to  go  wandering  over 
the  country  alone  with  him.  I  feared  that  he  might 
compromise  them  in  some  way,  or  even  resort  to 
blackmail ,  and  with  this  danger  before  my  mind, 
I  offered  to  accompany  the  ladies  on  their  par  to 
the  Riviera.  I  made  the  suggestion  to  Miss  Kedison, 
not  to  Molly,  and  hinted  to  her  something  concern 
ing  my  motives,  cautioning  her  at  the  same  time 
that  silence  was  vitally  important  until  I  could  give 
her  leave  to  speak.  You  may  think  that  I  was 
taking  a  good  deal  on  myself;  but  I  have  a  great 
regard  for  you,  as  well  as  an  unfortunately  deep 
affection  for  Molly,  and  as  I  have  made  many  in 
timate  friends  among  the  highest  in  the  land,  all  over 
the  Continent,  as  in  England,  I  felt  that  my  presence 
in  the  car  might  be  especially  helpful. 

During  the  first  day  or  two  of  our  journey  I  caught 
Brown  in  several  audacious  lies.  He  was  insolent  to 
me,  evidently  afraid  that  I  meant  to  lose  him  his 
berth,  and  inclined  to  be  so  familiar  with  the  ladies, 
Molly  particularly,  that  my  suspicions  of  him  were 
roused  to  fever  heat.  I  began  to  see  that  his  ambi 
tions  tended  higher  than  I  had  at  first  supposed, 
and — I  hope  you  will  forgive  my  frankness — I  should 
not  be  surprised  if  some  day  before  long  Molly  should 
have  a  startling  awakening. 

I  questioned  her  carefully  as  to  what  Brown  had 


The  Lightning  Conductor  267 

said  to  her  of  his  late  master's  movements,  and 
it  appeared  that,  according  to  the  chauffeur,  the 
Honourable  John  Winston  had  returned  to  England, 
leaving  Brown  to  hire  out  and  drive  his  automobile. 
This  seemed  strange  to  me,  and  I  asked  myself  if 
it  were  possible  that  the  fellow  could  have  contrived 
to  steal  the  car,  and  be  using  it  for  his  own  purposes, 
taking  the  money  derived  from  its  hire  for  himself. 
One  thing  which  encouraged  this  deduction  was  the 
extremely  low  rent  asked  for  the  vehicle  and  the 
small  wages  demanded  by  Brown.  But  it  was  at 
Toulon  that  a  still  more  sinister  idea  was  forced  into 
my  mind  by  a  startling  incident  to  which  I  will  draw 
your  attention. 

You  will  very  likely  have  heard  from  Molly  that 
owing  to  a  side-slip  which  might  have  happened  to 
anyone  in  driving  an  automobile,  we  had  an  upset 
by  the  roadside,  and  in  common  politeness  I  was 
compelled  to  obey  Miss  Kedison's  request  to  remain 
with  her  at  a  small  village,  some  miles  from  Toulon, 
while  Molly  went  on  to  see  a  doctor  about  an  injury 
to  her  wrist,  Brown  being  her  attendant.  When 
Miss  Kedison  and  I  arrived  at  Toulon  on  the  car 
next  day,  it  was  decided  to  stay  the  night  there 
rather  than  go  on  so  late.  I  saw  Brown,  who  was 
working  outside  the  hotel  at  the  automobile,  take 
money  out  of  his  pocket  to  pay  a  man  who  had 
been  helping  him  with  the  repairs.  Something  small 
dropped  on  the  ground  as  he  did  so,  unknown  to 
Brown.  When  he  had  moved  away,  I  stooped  and 
picked  it  up.  It  was  a  French  pawn-ticket  for  a 
pledged  watch,  dated  the  previous  night.  I  deter- 


268  The  Lightning  Conductor 

mined,  in  the  interest  of  my  investigations,  to  visit 
the  pawnbroker's,  which  I  did;  and  giving  up  the 
ticket,  said  I  had  called  to  redeem  the  pledge. 
Imagine  my  sensations  when  I  saw  a  magnificent  gold 
repeater,  with  the  monogram  "J.  W."  upon  it  in 
small  diamonds.  The  conclusion  was  obvious,  for 
the  watch  was  not  one  which  would  be  given  by 
a  master  even  to  the  most  valued  servant.  I  paid 
something  like  two  hundred  and  sixty  francs  to 
redeem  the  repeater,  and  justified  such  a  proceeding 
to  myself  by  the  argument  that  the  watch  had 
assuredly  been  stolen,  and  that  my  action  was  the 
most  certain  way  of  preserving  it  for  the  owner  and 
earning  that  owner's  gratitude,  if  he  still  existed. 
Those  last  four  words,  which  I  have  underscored, 
will  enlighten  you  as  to  the  doubts  now  materialising 
in  my  mind.  In  fact,  I  believe  this  chauffeur  a  man 
capable  of  anything. 

On  returning  to  the  hotel,  with  the  Honourable 
Mr.  Winston's  watch  in  my  pocket,  I  made  a  few 
inquiries  as  to  Brown's  behaviour  the  night  before; 
I  learned  that  he  had  appeared  in  the  salle  a  manger 
for  dinner,  in  an  irreproachable  evening  suit  which 
in  some  way  he  must  have  obtained  from  his  master. 
Perhaps  I  ought  not  to  repeat  what  else  I  learned,  as 
I  do  not  like  to  tell  tales  out  of  school,  but  I  think 
it  is  only  right  you  should  know  that  Molly  allowed 
this  impostor  to  sit  at  the  table  with  her,  as  if  he  had 
been  an  equal  instead  of  a  servant. 

I  positively  dared  not  let  Miss  Kedison  into  the 
secret  of  what  had  happened,  but  I  hinted  to  her 
that  I  had  had  good  reason  to  think  less  well  of 


The  Lightning  Conductor  269 

Brown  even  than  before.  It  was  arranged  that  we 
should  induce  Molly  to  hurry  on  to  Cannes,  where 
Lady  Brighthelmston  (pronounced  "Brighton"), 
the  mother  of  my  friend  the  Honourable  John  Win 
ston,  was  supposed  to  be  staying.  I  wished  to  find 
out  from  her  when  she  had  last  heard  from  her  son, 
and  if  she  were  absolutely  assured  of  his  present 
safety.  I  also  intended  to  show  her  the  watch,  and 
put  her  in  possession  of  all  the  deductions  and  details 
I  had  been  able  to  pick  up.  This  once  done,  Brown's 
exposure  by  Lady  Brighthelmston  and  subsequent 
dismissal  by  Molly  would  be  only  a  question  of 
hours. 

Unfortunately,  however,  Lady  Brighthelmston  had 
left  Cannes  for  Rome  when  we  arrived;  nevertheless, 
one  more  proof  of  the  chauffeur's  duplicity  came  into 
my  hands  there.  A  letter  which  had  been  left  in 
the  rack  for  the  Honourable  John  Winston,  by  his 
mother,  was  secretly  taken  out  by  Brown.  And  the 
fact  that  Lady  Brighthelmston  was  expecting  her 
son  to  join  her  on  his  automobile  does  not  look  as  if 
poor  Jack  were  in  England  and  had  voluntarily  left 
his  car  with  the  chauffeur.  '  f 

Altogether  the  affair  appears  ominous  for  my 
friend,  and  the  thought  that  Molly  and  Miss  Kedi- 
son  are  perpetually  at  the  mercy  of  this  unscrupu- 
IwUS  wretch,  in  a  strange  country,  is  maddening  to 
me  as  it  will  be  to  you  when  you  receive  this  letter. 
When  they  left  the  Riviera  for  Italy,  I  was  obliged 
tc  remain  behind  for  a  day  with  a  sick  friend,  but 
followed  as  soon  as  possible  on  my  Panhard.  Ow 
ing,  however,  to  unforeseen  events  and  one  or  two 


270  The  Lightning  Conductor 

small  accidents,  I  was  delayed,  and  unable  to  catch 
them  up  as  I  had  intended.  Finally,  as  Brown  was 
probably  hurrying  on  with  the  express  intention  of 
making  it  impossible  for  me  to  overtake  the  party, 
I  determined  to  abandon  my  car  and  proceed  by 
rail  to  Rome,  their  destination.  My  idea  was  to 
reach  that  city  before  they  could  do  so,  and  see 
Lady  Brighthelmston  as  I  had  planned  to  do  at 
Cannes,  so  that  the  police  could  be  ready  if  neces 
sary  to  arrest  Brown  immediately  on  his  arrival.  I 
arrived  on  the  day  expected  and  called  at  the  hotel 
to  which  Lady  Brighthelmston 's  letters  were  to  be 
forwarded  from  Cannes.  But  on  account  of  the  un 
usual  cold  and  bad  weather,  she  had  suffered  from 
neuralgia,  and  had  gone  on  with  her  friends,  after 
less  than  a  week's  stay,  to  Naples,  with  the  idea 
that  she  might  visit  Sicily  later. 

Having  gone  so  far,  I  am  not  to  be  turned  back. 
I  love  Molly  far  too  well  to  desert  her,  and  some  day, 
when  she  finds  out  all  I  have  done  for  her  sake,  per 
haps  she  will  appreciate  me  better  than  she  has  up 
to  the  present.  I  cannot  tell  her  myself,  but  it  may 
be  that  you  will  think  fit  to  let  her  know.  I  mean 
to  follow  Lady  Brighthelmston  to  Naples,  or  even 
farther  if  it  be  necessary,  for  writing  the  information 
I  have  to  give  might  do  more  harm  than  good  to 
everyone  concerned.  I  must  be  on  the  spot;  but 
very  unluckily  I  cannot  be  there  for  some  days  to 
come.  The  weather  in  Rome  is  really  awful,  and  I 
have  contracted  something  which  I  am  afraid  is 
influenza.  With  the  best  intentions,  I  cannot  go  to 
the  rescue  until  the  doctor  gives  me  leave.  I  shall 


The  Lightning  Conductor  271 

probably  still  be  here  when  Molly  arrives.  Mean 
while,  my  dear  Mr.  Randolph,  I  have  thought  best  to 
put  you  on  your  guard. 

Yours  faithfully  and  sincerely, 

J.  F.  PAYNE. 


MOLLY  RANDOLPH  TO  HER  FATHER 

HOTEL   DE   RUSSIE,   ROME, 

January  2. 

Darling  Dad, 

Forgive  me  for  that  inadequate  little  note 
written  yesterday  to  wish  you  a  Happy  New  Year; 
but  short  as  it  was,  there  was  enough  love  in  it  to 
make  the  letter  double  postage.  We  have  been  work 
ing  so  hard  at  pleasure  since  that  I  haven't  had  time 
for  anything  except  the  various  cables  which  from 
day  to  day  I  have  flung  to  you  from  our  chariot  of 
fire  as  we  sped  half-way  down  the  long  leg  of  Italy 
— that's  pink  on  my  schoolroom  map  at  home.  Some 
how,  I've  always  thought  of  Italy  as  being  pink,  ever 
since  I  first  hunted  it  out  on  the  map;  and  it  is  still 
gloriously  couleur  de  rose  to  the  eyes  of  my  body  and 
mind. 

How  splendid  it  is  not  to  be  disappointed  in  some 
thing  that  you've  looked  forward  to  all  your  life,  isn't 
it?  But  I  don't  think  I  am  the  kind  of  girl  who  is 
disappointed  in  real  things — nature's  real  things,  I 
mean.  People  have  often  said  to  me,  "Oh,  you  will 
be  disappointed  in  Europe,  if  you  look  forward  to  it 
so  much."  But  I  believe  such  creatures  have  no 
imagination.  With  imagination  you  have  the  glamour 

272 


The  Lightning  Conductor  273 

of  the  past  and  all  the  wonderful  things  that  have 
happened  in  a  place,  as  well  as  the  mere  beauty  of 
the  present.  But  then,  without  imagination  one  must 
just  expect  to  have  one's  poor  little  soul  go  bare,  and 
to  live  on  all  the  "  cold  pieces  "  of  life,  never  to  taste 
the  nectar  and  ambrosia  of  the  gods;  never  to  know 
the  thrill  of  sympathy,  or  any  other  thrill  that  isn't 
purely  physical. 

I'm  intoxicated  with  all  I  have  seen  and  am  seeing 
— which  must  excuse  the  harangue.  And  I'm  in 
toxicated  with  the  joy  of  driving  the  car.  Lately  I 
have  been  rivalling  the  Lightning  Conductor,  for  my 
wrist  is  quite  well  again.  The  microbe  of  auto- 
mobilism  has  entered  into  my  blood.  Yes,  I'm 
speaking  literally;  I'm  sure  there's  such  a  microbe, 
and  that  he's  a  brave  beast.  I  should  like  to  see  him 
in  your  big  microscope.  Perhaps  I'll  bring  him 
home  for  the  purpose. 

It  has  become  the  greatest  joy  I  have  ever  known 
to  get  all  I  possibly  can  out  of  noble  Balzac;  to  urge 
Balzac  uphill  as  fast  as  I  can;  to  drive  Balzac  down 
hill  as  fast  as  I  dare;  to  manoeuvre  Balzac  in  and 
out  of  traffic  with  all  my  skill  and  nerve.  But  you 
mustn't  be  a  bit  uneasy  about  me.  Brown  is  always 
at  my  elbow  to  "warn,  to  comfort,  to  command,"  and 
I  know  that  he  won't  let  me  do  anything  I  oughtn't 
or  let  any  harm  come  of  it  if  I  did. 

The  worst  of  driving  an  automobile  yourself,  when 
you've  really  got  that  microbe  in  your  blood,  is  that 
you  don't  see  quite  as  much  of  the  country  as  you 
would  otherwise,  and  that  you  hate  to  stop,  even 
when  there  are  wonderful  things  to  see.  But  then  it 


274  The  Lightning  Conductor 

used  to  be  almost  the  same  in  both  ways  when  one 
lived,  breathed,  and  moved  for  bicycles.  Do  you 
remember  how  I  would  talk  of  nothing  else,  and 
made  "bike  slang"  answer  for  all  human  nature's 
daily  needs?  You  were  annoyed  one  night  when  I 
took  your  arm  as  we  were  walking  together,  and  told 
you  you  were  "geared  too  high  for  me." 

If  my  life  depended  now  on  giving  accurate  details 
of  the  country  through  which  we've  been  driving,  I 
should  have  to  resign  myself  to  die.  I  only  know 
that  I've  never  been  so  happy,  or  seen  half  so  much 
that  was  beautiful  and  (as  that  Mrs.  Bennett,  who 
wanted  to  marry  you  so  badly,  was  always  saying) 
"  soul-satisfying." 

Well,  we  left  Bordighera  the  day  after  Christmas. 
Brown  called  it  "Boxing  Day,"  but  I  didn't  under 
stand  what  he  meant  till  he  explained.  We  went 
spinning  along  the  Riviera  di  Ponente,  towards 
Genoa  la  Superba,  where  we  were  to  halt  for  the 
night.  Perhaps — just  perhaps — a  true  critic  of  beauty , 
whose  blood  had  cooled  with  much  experience,  would 
say  that  the  Italian  Riviera  road  wasn't  quite  equal 
to  the  French  between  Cannes  and  Mentone.  But 
it's  Italy,  Italy!  And  there's  the  difference  of  charm 
between  the  two  (as  I  said  to  Brown)  that  there  is 
between  a  magnificent  young  French  Duchesse, 
confident  of  her  own  charms,  with  generations  of 
breeding  and  wealth  behind  her,  and  a  lovely,  peach- 
tinted,  simple-hearted  Italian  peasant  girl.  How 
rich  the  colour  is  everywhere! — and  yet  it  never 
seems  to  dazzle  the  eye.  I  suppose  it's  the  wonder- 
ful  atmosphere  that  harmonises  everything.  And 


The  Lightning  Conductor  275 

then  the  lovely,  softening  effect  of  the  years;  the 
moss,  the  lichen;  the  endearing  dilapidation!  So 
many  things  appeal  to  your  heart  as  you  pass  through 
Italy.  Oh  I  don't  know  how  to  describe  it;  but 
luckily  you've  been  here,  and  we  generally  feel  things 
alike,  you  and  I;  so  you'll  know  what  I  mean.  Poor 
little  pathetic  houses,  painted  red,  blue,  or  yellow! 
You  laugh  at  them,  and  want  to  cry  over  them,  and 
love  them,  too.  And  the  reds,  yellows,  and  blues  are 
like  no  other  reds,  yellows,  and  blues  in  the  world. 
Fancy,  if  we  had  houses  like  that  in  our  new  land! 
How  frightful  they  would  be!  We  would  want  the 
painters  to  be  put  in  prison  for  their  crime. 

I  can  tell  you  this:  That  first  day  of  ours  was  like 
hurrying  through  a  whole  gallery  of  Turner's  paint 
ings.  I  love  Turner,  and  I  often  wonder  if  my  world 
isn't  as  different  from  many  people's  old  grey  worlds 
as  his  was! 

Another  thing,  we  had  become  phenomenal.  That 
is,  we  were  in  a  motor-car-less  region.  Ours  was  the 
only  car,  whereas  on  the  other  side  of  Mentone  we 
met  a  rival  every  ten  minutes.  I  do  get  cause  and 
effect  so  mixed  up.  Aren't  there  many  automobiles 
in  Italy  because  there  are  such  lots  of  places  where 
you  can't  buy  petrol;  or  can't  you  buy  petrol  because 
people  won't  go  in  automobiles? 

We  went  flashing  along  past  pretty  little  Ospe- 
daletti,  with  its  big  white  casino,  and  into  gay  and' 
colourful  San  Remo,  where  we  bought  inferior  petrol 
and  paid  twice  as  much  for  it  as  in  France.  I 
wonder  if  any  small  watering-place  ever  had  as  many 
attractive-looking  hotels  in  it  as  San  Remo?  If  I 


276  The  Lightning  Conductor 

were  staying  there,  I  should  weep  because  I  couldn't 
live  in  them  all  at  once.  But  one  would  be  obliged 
to  have  about  thirty  astral  bodies  to  go  round,  and 
each  one  would  have  to  be  a  well-dressed  astral  body. 
That  would  come  expensive;  or  do  astral  bodies 
exude  frocks,  so  to  speak? 

I  insisted  on  stopping  for  a  few  moments  within 
sight  of  Taggia,  because  a  great  friend  of  mine  lived 
there,  or  rather,  the  author  of  his  being.  His  name 
was  "Doctor  Antonio,"  and  he  existed  in  the  pages 
of  a  book  written  by  a  famous  Italian,  John  Ruffini. 
Brown  gave  me  the  book  for  a  Christmas  present, 
apologising  for  the  liberty;  but,  you  see,  it  was  all 
about  Bordighera,  and  he  thought  I  would  like  to 
have  it.  So  I  did,  for  it  is  one  of  the  most  enchant 
ing  stories  I  have  ever  read,  though  written  in  an 
old-fashioned  style,  and  also  with  a  pretty  little 
heroine  who  was  so  old-fashionedly  meek  I  could 
have  shaken  her.  I  sat  up  nearly  all  night  reading 
the  book,  and  oh,  how  I  cried!  There  never  was 
such  a  splendid  fellow  in  real  life  as  Doctor  Antonio, 
except,  of  course,  you.  And,  do  you  know,  if  Brown 
had  been  born  a  gentleman  I  think  he  might  have 
turned  out  something  like  that.  I  liked  Taggia  for 
Doctor  Antonio's  sake;  and  I  admired  Porto  Mau- 
rizio  on  its  haughty  promontory.  It  towers  in  my 
recollection  just  as  the  real  Porto  Maurizio  towers 
above  the  indigo -blue  sea,  out  of  which  it  seems  to 
grow. 

If  it  hadn't  been  for  Brown,  I'm  ashamed  to  say 
I  shouldn't  have  known  much  about  the  Ligurian 
Alps.  Do  you,  Dad?  They're  frightfully  interest- 


The  Lightning  Conductor  277 

ing,  a  sort  of  "  bed  rock  "  of  Italian  history.  Dear  me, 
how  ignorant  one  can  be,  when  all  the  while  one  is 
quite  pleased  with  oneself  as  an  Educated  Person, 
with  a  capital  E  and  P. 

Alassio  I  thought  a  dear  little  place.  You  stopped 
there  when  you  were  coaching,  in  your  honeymoon 
days.  How  little  you  dreamed  then  that  your 
daughter  would  go  tearing  through  on  a  motor?  It 
has  a  nicer  beach  than  any  of  the  rival  towns  we 
saw;  no  wonder  the  Italians  love  to  bathe  there! 
Brown  told  me  interesting  stories  about  the  enor 
mous,  lofty  brick  towers  of  Albenza,  that  seemed  to 
nod  so  drowsily  over  the  narrow,  shadowed  streets; 
Savona  was  too  much  modernised  to  please  me, 
though  the  name  had  chimed  alluringly  in  my  ears; 
and  with  Pra  we  were  treading  on  the  trailing  skirts 
of  Genoa.  Jimmy  Payne  had  told  Aunt  Mary  that 
it  was  nicer  to  stay  all  night  in  Pegli  than  in  Genoa, 
because  there  were  large  gardens  and  a  splendid 
view;  but  Brown  said,  if  we  would  trust  him,  he 
would  take  us  to  a  hotel  in  the  midst  of  Genoa,  with 
a  large  garden  and  a  splendid  view.  So  we  did  trust 
him — at  least  I  did.  And  oh,  Dad,  I  had  my  first 
experience  in  driving  through  real,  enormous  city 
traffic  in  Genoa!  I  would  try  it;  and  I  succeeded 
beyond  my  dreams.  I  have  got  things  to  a  fine 
point  now,  so  that  I  manipulate  the  clutch  and 
throttle  (don't  they  sound  murderous?)  almost  auto 
matically;  and  there's  something  quite  magical  in 
the  ease  with  which  one  can  bring  the  car  instantly 
down  to  a  crawling  walk,  which  wouldn't  disconcert 
a  tortoise,  behind  a  string  of  carts,  or  at  a  touch  dart 


278  The  Lightning  Conductor 

ahead  of  the  string,  and  leave  the  swiftest  horse  as  if 
he  were  standing  still. 

There  must  be  comparatively  few  automobiles  in 
Genoa,  or  else  ours  beat  the  record  for  beauty;  for 
people  in  the  long,  straight,  narrow  old  streets  lined 
with  palaces,  or  the  wide,  stately,  newer  streets  of 
splendid  shops  (where  they  showed  everything  on 
earth  except  the  Genoa  velvet  I  had  always  yearned 
to  see  on  its  native  heath)  turned  to  stare  at  us. 
But  oh,  perhaps  it  was  only  because  a  girl  was 
driving!  Anyway,  the  girl  didn't  disgrace  herself. 
You  would  have  been  proud  to  see  her  daringly 
steer  down  an  old  sloping  causeway  into  the  Garden 
of  Eden — I  mean,  the  garden  of  our  hotel.  Anyway, 
the  girl  was  proud  of  herself  when  the  Lightning 
Conductor  said,  "Brava!  No  one  could  have  done 
that  better. " 

Brown  was  quite  right  about  coming  on  to  Genoa. 
It  was  a  lovely  hotel,  with  quite  a  tropical  garden 
that  had  a  sort  of  private  Zoo  of  its  own;  jolly  little 
beasts  and  birds  in  cages,  which  Aunt  Mary  and 
I  fed  next  morning,  when  we'd  had  a  delicious  rest 
after  a  long  day.  After  an  early  breakfast  we  went 
sight-seeing;  and  isn't  the  Campo  Santo  the  very 
quaintest  thing  you  ever  saw?  I  don't  think  I  could 
have  helped  laughing  at  some  of  the  extraordinary 
marble  ladies  (with  hoop  skirts  and  bustles,  and 
embroidered  granite  ruffles,  and  stone  roses  in  their 
bonnets,  kissing  the  hands  of  angel  husbands  with 
mutton-chop  whiskers  and  elastic-sided  boots;  or 
knocking  at  the  doors  of  forbidding-looking  tombs, 
with  Death  as  a  sort  of  unliveried  footman  saying, 


'RAPALLO,    THE    MOST   BEAUTIFUL   OF   ALL." 


The  Lightning  Conductor  279 

"Not  at  home")  if  it  hadn't  been  for  the  mourners 
coming  to  visit  their  dead.  Oh,  the  pathos  of  them, 
with  their  sad,  dark  eyes,  their  heavy  black  draperies, 
and  the  flowers  they  were  bringing  to  tell  their  loved 
ones  that  they  were  never  forgotten!  Instead  of 
laughing,  I  came  near  crying.  But  the  two  moods 
are  often  so  near  together  that  one  makes  mistakes 
in  their  identity.  The  only  fine  and  simple  thing  in 
the  huge,  strange  place  was  the  tomb  of  Mazzini. 

I  was  tremendously  impressed  with  the  harbour  at 
Genoa.  It  seemed  so  proud,  as  if  Italy  need  have  no 
shame  to  be  represented  by  it,  in  the  presence  of  all 
the  crowding  ships  from  all  the  ports  of  the  world. 

The  morning  was  still  young  and  fair  when  we 
rushed  away  along  the  Riviera  di  Levante;  and  even 
Aunt  Mary  was  congratulating  herself  that  we  were 
on  an  automobile  and  not  a  train.  For  a  while  oui 
road  ran  side  by  side  with  the  rail;  and  whenever 
the  coast  was  at  its  most  exquisite,  with  some  jut 
ting  headland  over  which  we  could  skim  like  a 
bird,  the  wretched  train  had  to  go  burrowing  through 
the  earth  like  a  mole,  all  the  glory  and  beauty  shut 
out  in  murky  darkness.  I  counted  about  fifty  tun 
nels  between  Genoa  and  Spezzia.  When  we'd  escaped 
from  the  suburbs  of  Genoa,  and  the  last  tall  houses 
which  made  you  afraid  it  might  be  their  day  to  fall, 
we  came  upon  visions  as  lovely  as  any  we  had  seen 
in  the  French  Riviera.  Those  gleaming  towns  set 
on  curving  bays  of  sapphire  will  always  seem  like 
dream-towns  to  me,  unless  I  go  back  and  prove  their 
reality;  especially  Rapallo,  which  was  the  most 
beautiful  of  all.  Jennie  Harborough  and  her  mother 


280  The  Lightning  Conductor 

spent  all  one  winter  there,  I  remember  their  telling 
me,  and  were  sorry  to  go  at  the  end.  They  went 
because  it  was  rather  cheap,  but  stayed  because  it 
was  more  lovely  than  the  expensive  places.  From 
Rapallo,  through  Zoagli  to  Chiavari,  we  were  high 
above  the  sea,  winding  through  ravine  after  ravine, 
but  at  Chiavari  the  best  of  the  coast  was  behind  us; 
and  at  Sestri,  much  to  our  disgust,  we  had  to  turn 
our  backs  on  the  sea.  Still,  it  was  delicious  mount 
ing  up  among  the  foothills  of  the  Apennines  by  the 
Col  di  Baracca,  and  running  down  to  Spezzia,  lying 
like  a  pretty,  lazy  woman,  looking  out  upon  the  green 
gulf  named  after  it.  We  had  lunch  in  a  cool,  agree 
able  hotel  to  which  I  felt  grateful  because  of  its  pretty 
name — the  Croce  di  Malta.  I  did  want  to  go  and 
see  Shelley's  house  at  Lerici,  but — well,  I  saw  its 
photograph  instead ;  for  there  was  our  Napier  ' '  sleep 
ing  with  one  valve  open,"  luring  us  on,  on  under  the 
shadow  of  the  Apennines.  One  does  feel  a  wretch 
always  "going  on"  instead  of  lingering,  but  that 
microbe  I  told  you  about  gives  one  a  fever.  Think 
of  running  through  Lucca!  But,  if  we  did  what  we 
planned  in  the  day  we  must  sacrifice  something,  so  we 
sacrificed  Lucca  to  Pisa.  The  very  name,  before  our 
arrival,  made  me  a  child  again,  looking  through  the 
big  stereoscope  in  your  study  at  the  Leaning  Tower, 
or  at  the  steel  engraving  in  Finden's  Landscape 
Annual.  But  from  the  moment  I  saw  it,  like  a 
carving  in  ivory,  reclining  gracefully  on  the  bosom 
of  a  golden  cloud,  I  forgot  the  stereoscope  and  the 
Annual.  In  future  I  shall  always  see  it  against  that 
cloud  of  rosy  sunset-gold. 


The  Lightning  Conductor  281 

I  never  knew  how  beautiful  marble  could  be  until 
I  came  to  Pisa  and  Rome.  Somehow  I  had  associated 
Pisa  with  the  Leaning  Tower,  and  not  with  the  Bap 
tistry.  I  knew  it  existed,  and,  vaguely,  that  it 
was  worth  seeing;  but  Pisa  meant  the  Leaning 
Tower  to  me.  Now  I  couldn't  tell  you  which  has 
left  the  deeper  impression.  I'm  not  at  all  the  same 
girl  that  I  was  before  I  put  Pisa  and  Rome  into  the 
gallery  of  my  mind.  I  must  make  myself  a  worthy 
frame  for  such  pictures  as  I  am  storing  up  now.  I 
have  the  feeling  not  only  that  I  want  to  read  better 
books,  hear  more  splendid  music,  and  do  more  noble 
things,  but  that  I  shall  know  how  to  appreciate  more 
clearly  everything  that  is  exalted  or  exalting.  I 
hope  you  won't  think  me  sentimental  to  say  that. 

We  stayed  all  night  at  a  real  Italian  hotel  on  the 
Lung  Arno.  Brown  suggested  it,  thinking  that  we 
might  enjoy  an  experience  thoroughly  characteristic 
of  the  country  through  which  we  were  flying  so  fast. 
Aunt  Mary  wasn't  pleased  with  the  idea  at  all,  said 
it  would  be  horrid,  and  prophesied  unspeakable 
things;  but,  as  usual,  Brown  proved  to  be  right,  and 
she  consented  to  admit  it  if  I  would  promise  not  to 
punish  her  with  her  own  stock  phrase— "I  told  you 
so! "  You  would  have  laughed  to  see  me  con 
scientiously  trying  to  eat  maccaroni  in  the  true 
Italian  way.  I  curled  it  round  my  fork  beautifully, 
but  the  hateful  thing  would  uncurl  again  before  I 
could  get  it  up  to  my  mouth,  and  accidents  happened. 

I  watched  the  Italians,  too,  pouring  their  wine 
from  the  fat  glass  flasks  swung  in  pivoted  cradles. 
They  did  it  all  with  one  hand,  holding  a  goblet 


282  The  Lightning  Conductor 

between  the  thumb  and  second  finger,  and  twisting 
the  index  finger  round  the  neck  of  the  bottle  to  pull 
it  forward.  It  looked  such  a  neat  and  simple  trick 
that  I  thought  I  could  do  likewise;  but — well,  it  was 
the  reverse  of  neat  when  I  did  it,  and  the  spotless 
tablecloth  was  spotless  no  longer.  Instead  of  glaring 
at  me  for  the  mischief  I  had  done,  the  head  waiter 
was  all  sympathy.  How  nice  and  Italian  of  him! 

That  night,  lying  between  sheets  that  smelt  of 
lavender — only  better  than  American  or  English 
lavender — I  lived  through  the  day  once  more,  seeing 
ruined  watch-towers  set  on  hills,  old  grey  monasteries 
falling  into  beautiful  decay,  or  apparitions  of  white 
marble  cathedrals.  Then,  over  and  over  again,  that 
wonderful  carved-ivory  tower  leaning  against  the 
golden  sky  came  back  to  me — so  clean,  so  uninjured 
by  the  reverent  centuries,  and  the  sound  of  the  angel- 
voiced  echo  in  the  Baptistry,  and  the  strange  shapes 
of  the  dear  beasts  supporting  the  pulpit,  just  like  I 
used  to  picture  the  beasts  in  Revelations  when  I  was 
a  little  girl.  Next  morning  I  had  another  look  at 
the  Leaning  Tower  before  we  started,  and  in  a  shop 
I  came  across  a  delicious  and  beautifully  written 
book  called  In  Tuscany,  by  the  English  Consul  at 
Leghorn,  so  I  bought  it,  and  now  I  know  as  much  as 
Brown  does  about  the  country  through  which  we 
passed  during  several  perfect  days. 

I'm  not  sure,  but  I  am  being  both  brutal  and  banal 
in  saying  that  the  rest  of  our  journey  to  Rome  was 
comparatively  uninteresting.  Of  course,  nothing  can 
be  really  uninteresting  in  Italy,  but  I  suppose  those 
first  days  had  spoiled  me.  We  drove  for  mile  after 


The  Lightning  Conductor  283 

mile  through  marshy  land,  where  tall,  melancholy 
eucalyptus  trees  told  their  tale  of  a  brave  struggle 
against  malaria.  All  the  windows  and  doors  of  the 
signal  cabins  by  the  railway  stations  were  protected 
by  wire  gauze  against  mosquitoes,  and  we  who  have 
spent  summers  on  Staten  Island  know  what  that 
means,  don't  we? 

I  think,  if  I  were  not  in  Rome,  I  could  have 
written  you  a  better  account  of  our  flight  through 
Italy;  but  the  Eternal  City  has  blurred  all  other 
impressions  for  me  now,  though  I  think  afterwards 
they  will  come  back  as  clear  and  bright  as  ever. 
Nevertheless,  I'm  not  going  to  write  you  much  about 
Rome.  It's  too  big  for  my  pen,  too  mighty  and  too 
marvellous.  I  can  only  feel.  You  have  been  here, 
and  Rome  doesn't  change.  Only  I  wonder  what  you 
felt  when  you  first  saw  the  Laocoon  and  the  Apollo 
Belvedere?  I  used  to  think  I  didn't  quite  appreciate 
sculpture,  but  now  I  know  it  was  because  something 
in  me  was  waiting  for  the  best,  and  refusing  to  be 
satisfied  with  what  was  less  than  the  best.  Why,  I 
didn't  even  know  what  marble  could  be  till  I  saw  the 
Laocoon.  I  had  meant  to  do  a  good  deal  of  sight 
seeing  that  day  when  I  began  with  the  Vatican;  but 
I  sat  for  hours  in  front  of  those  writhing  figures  in 
their  eternal  torture.  I  couldn't  go  away.  The 
statue  seemed  to  belong  to  me,  and  I  had  found  it 
again,  after  searching  hundreds  and  hundreds  of 
years.  I  wonder  if  I  was  once  a  princess  in  the 
palace  of  the  Caesars,  in  another  state  of  existence, 
and  if  in  those  days  I  used  to  stand  and  worship  the 
Laocoon?  I  shouldn't  wonder  a  bit.  And  the  Apollo 


284  The  Lightning  Conductor 

Belvedere!  What  a  gentleman — what  a  perfect 
gentleman  he  is!  You  will  laugh  at  me  for  such 
a  thought.  It  seems  commonplace,  but  it  isn't. 
Nobody's  ever  said  it  before.  He's  such  a  gentle 
man  and  so  graciously  beautiful  that  you  know  he 
must  be  a  god.  I  shouldn't  have  minded  worshipping 
him  a  bit.  Paganism  had  its  points. 

I  should  love  to  come  back  to  Rome  on  my  wed 
ding  trip  if  I  were  married  to  exactly  the  right  man ; 
but  if  he  were  not  exactly  right  I  should  kill  him; 
whereas  in  ordinary  places  I  might  be  able  to  stand 
him  well  enough,  as  well  as  most  women  stand  their 
husbands.  Speaking  of  men  who  aren't  exactly  right 
reminds  me  of  Jimmy  Payne.  He  is  here.  He  seems 
to  have  a  sort  of  instinct  to  tell  him  when  one  is 
about  to  drive  up  to  a  hotel,  and  then  he  stations 
himself  in  the  door,  expecting  the  blessing  which 
is  for  those  who  stand  and  wait.  We  made  a  sensa 
tion  driving  down  the  narrow  Corso  at  the  fashionable 
hour,  and  Jimmy  got  some  of  the  credit  of  it  when 
he  stepped  forward  to  welcome  us.  He  had  heard 
me  say  that  we  would  stop  here,  because  I'd  been 
told  it  was  the  only  hotel  in  Rome  with  a  garden, 
and  was  close  to  the  Pincian;  and  Jimmy  has  such 
a  way  of  remembering  things  you  say,  if  he  thinks 
it's  to  his  advantage.  His  first  appearance  was 
slightly  marred,  however,  by  a  sneeze  which,  like 
Lady  Macbeth's  etcetera  spot,  would  "out"  at  the 
precise  moment  of  shaking  hands.  He  says  he  got 
influenza  from  the  Duchessa  di  Something-or-Other, 
upon  whom  he  was  obliged  to  call  the  instant  he 
arrived,  or  she  would  never  have  forgiven  him;  so  of 


The  Lightning  Conductor  285 

course  it's  not  quite  so  hard  to  bear  as  common, 
second-class  influenza.  It  appears  that  he  was  so 
anxious  to  see  "dear  Lady  Brighthelmston  before 
she  could  get  away"  that  he  shed  his  automobile  at 
Genoa,  and  hurried  on  by  train,  though  whether  on 
receipt  of  a  telegraphic  bidding  from  her  ladyship  or 
not  I  don't  know.  Anyway,  she  didn't  wait  for  him, 
or  else  the  influenza  frightened  her;  for  she  has  gone, 
and  apparently  without  leaving  word  for  poor  discon 
solate  Jimmy.  She  was  at  his  hotel,  and  left  word 
with  the  manager  that  she  would  wire  when  she  was 
settled  in  "some  place  where  there  was  a  little  sun 
shine"  for  her  letters  to  be  forwarded.  He  is  waiting 
till  that  wire  arrives. 

Jimmy  is  "thick  as  thieves"  with  Aunt  Mary,  but 
as  frigid  as  a  whole  iceberg  to  poor  Brown,  if  they 
happen  to  run  across  each  other.  I  do  think,  don't 
you,  Dad,  that  it  shows  shocking  bad  breeding  to  be 
nasty  to  a  person  who,  from  the  very  nature  of  the 
case,  can't  answer  back?  When  I  hear  people  speak 
ing  rudely  to  servants  I  always  set  them  down  as 
cads.  Imagine  marrying  a  man  and  then  finding  out 
that  he  was  a  cad!  One  ought  to  be  able  to  get  a 
divorce.  The  weather  has,  I  suppose,  been  terrible 
since  we  came  to  Rome ;  at  least,  I  hear  everyone  in 
our  hotel  grumbling,  and  certainly  gardens  haven't 
been  of  much  use  to  us.  But  I  am  in  a  mood  not  to 
mind  weather.  I  am  in  Rome.  I  say  that  over  to 
myself,  and  I  read  Lanciani  and  Hare,  and  then  I 
don't  know  whether  it  rains  or  not.  Besides,  yester 
day  was  clear  on  purpose  for  me  to  walk  in  the 
Pincian  and  Borghese  Gardens.  Brown  had  to  go 


286  The  Lightning  Conductor 

with  me  because  Aunt  Mary  was  afraid  there  would 
be  another  storm;  and  besides,  some  little  English 
ladies  she  has  met  in  our  hotel  had  invited  her  to 
have  tea  with  them  in  their  bedroom.  They  make  it 
themselves  with  their  own  things,  because  then  you 
don't  have  to  pay;  and  if  there  aren't  enough  cups 
to  go  round  among  the  ladies  they've  asked,  they 
take  their  tooth-brush  glasses  for  themselves.  And 
they  bring  in  custardy  cakes  in  paper-bags  and  cream 
in  tiny  pails  which  they  hide  in  their  muffs,  and  try  to 
look  unconscious.  There  are  a  lot  here  like  that, 
and  they  stay  all  winter.  None  of  them  are  married, 
and  they  all  do  and  say  exactly  the  things  you  know 
they  will  beforehand.  Why,  just  to  look  at  them 
you  feel  sure  they'd  have  tatting  on  their  stays,  and 
make  their  own  garters.  But  some  of  them  are 
titled,  or  if  they're  not  they  talk  a  great  deal  about 
being  "well  connected";  and  they  do  nothing  on 
weekdays  but  read  novels,  work  in  worsteds,  and 
play  bridge  with  the  windows  hermetically  sealed; 
or  on  Sundays  but  go  to  the  English  church.  Only 
think,  and  they're  in  Rome! 

I  haven't  wasted  one  minute  since  we  came,  but, 
thank  goodness,  I'm  not  trying  to  "do"  Rome  scien 
tifically  and  exhaustively  like  so  many  poor  wilted- 
looking  Americans  I've  met  here.  They  think  they 
must  see  every  picture  in  every  gallery,  and  put  at 
least  their  noses  inside  every  church;  and  then  they 
scribble  things  down  in  their  note-books — things 
which  will  do  them  just  as  much  good  afterwards  as 
Lizard  Bill's  writings  on  his  slate  when  the  ink 
trickled  over  his  nose,  in  Alice's  Adventures.  One 


The  Lightning  Conductor  287 

American  lady  in  this  hotel  said  her  daughters  had 
dragged  her  about  so  much  that  she  didn't  know 
what  country  she  was  in  any  more,  except  by  the 
postage  stamps.  If  I  were  in  her  place  I  should  lie 
down  to  take  a  nap  when  I  arrived  in  town,  and  say  I 
had  seen  the  things  when  I  went  back  to  Fond  du  Lac ; 
there's  where  she  lived  before  her  daughters  took  to 
doing  Paris  in  one  day  and  London  in  two ;  they  told 
me  quite  simply  that  was  the  time  you  needed  to  give. 

Dad,  we  drove  in  the  automobile  along  the  Appian 
Way.  It  sounds  shocking,  but  it  wasn't;  it  was 
glorious.  There  is  never  anything  jarring  (I  don't 
mean  that  for  a  pun)  about  going  into  the  midst  of 
old  and  wonderful  things  on  a  motor-car,  for  it  is 
wonderful  too,  and  it  has  a  dignity  of  its  own — the 
dignity  of  fine  and  perfect  mechanism  which  seems 
alive,  like  a  splendid  Pegasus  or  an  obedient  unicorn, 
or  some  other  strange  legendary  animal  which  you 
are  obliged  to  respect  and  marvel  at. 

And  Brown  took  me  into  the  Colosseum  last  night 
— late — when  the  moon  was  rising  out  of  torn  black 
clouds. 

But  I  said  I  wasn't  going  to  write  about  Rome, 
and  I  won't — I  vow  I  won't,  not  even  about  St. 
Peter's.  I  think  one  ought  to  stop  here  ten  days, 
and  see  things  all  day  long — just  things  you  want  to 
see,  not  things  you  ought  to  see;  or  else  linger  for 
months,  and  let  everything  soak  into  your  soul.  I 
can't  do  the  latter,  this  time,  with  the  Napier  waiting 
— waiting;  and  so  I'm  making  the  best  of  the  first. 
Your  reincarnated  Roman  Princess, 

MOLLY. 


FROM  MOLLY  RANDOLPH  TO  HER  FATHER 

PARKER'S  HOTEL,  NAPLES, 

January  13. 

You  Dear, 

I  have  seen  Naples,  but  I  don't  wish  to  die. 
Not  that  I  should  so  much  grudge  dying  after  the 
happy  life  you've  given  me,  but  there'd  be  such  an 
awful  waste  of  time  in  staying  dead  when  so  much 
is  left  to  see.  There's  Capri,  and  there's  Sicily  almost 
next  door;  and  even  a  Saturday  to  Monday  on  Mars 
wouldn't  make  up  to  me  for  missing  them. 

We  put  our  hands  to  the  plough,  and  came  here 
from  Rome  in  six  hours,  only  one  hour  more  than 
the  fast  (?)  train  takes.  We  didn't  stop  for  lunch, 
but  kept  ourselves  up  on  beef  lozenges,  which  were 
nasty  but  supporting.  We  wanted  to  see  how  quickly 
we  could  do  it,  and  even  Aunt  Mary  was  excited. 
She  is  much  pleasanter  without  Jimmy,  and  we  really 
did  have  fun.  It's  an  ill  rain  that  doesn't  temper  the 
dust  to  an  automobile,  so  we  blessed  the  weathef 
which  we  had  previously  anathematised.  After  a 
pouring  night,  it  cleared  before  we  started;  and  it 
was  one  of  the  best  days  we  have  ever  had.  I  remem 
bered  heaps  of  things  which  had  happened  to  me 
when  I  was  a  Roman  princess,  two  thousand  years 

288 


The  Lightning  Conductor  289 

ago,  and  felt  just  as  if  I  were  travelling  in  my  chariot 
from  my  father's  palace  in  Rome  to  his  villa,  perhaps 
in  Baiae.  My  only  fear  was  that,  in  going  so  fast,  we 
should  arrive  at  our  destination  so  long  before  the 
impedimenta  that  I  should  have  to  do  without  my 
baths  of  asses'  milk  for  several  days;  and  where 
would  be  my  royal  complexion? 

•It  was  six  o'clock,  and  dark,  when  we  came  in 
sight  of  something  which  made  me  cry  out  "Oh!" 
It  was  a  dull  red  light,  high  up  in  the  sky,  and  a 
dark  shape,  like  a  great  wounded  bull,  with  two 
streams  of  fiery  blood  pouring  down  its  gored  sides. 
Vesuvius!  Brown  had  planned  that  we  should  see 
it  for  the  first  time  after  dark.  I  had  wondered  why 
he  suggested  not  leaving  Rome  till  twelve  o'clock, 
when  usually  he  is  so  keen  on  early  starts,  and  he 
was  evasive  when  I  asked  why.  But  when  I  had 
breathed  that  "Oh!  "  and  had  a  moment  to  recover 
myself,  he  told  me. 

Dad,  dear,  Brown  is  splendid.  He  has  revealed 
Naples  to  me.  I  can't  express  it  in  any  other  way, 
for  nobody  else  who  has  told  me  about  coming  to 
Naples  has  ever  done  the  things  that  we  have;  and 
they  would  not  have  occurred  to  Aunt  Mary  or  me. 
We  should  have  gone  the  ordinary  round  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  him,  and  when  we  said  good-bye  to  her 
Naples  would  have  been  only  a  mere  acquaintance 
of  ours,  not  a  dear  and  intimate  friend  who  has  told 
us  her  best  secrets.  In  the  first  place,  we  shouldn't 
have  known  any  better  than  to  stop  in  some  big, 
obvious  sort  of  hotel  in  the  noisy  wasps'  nest  of  the 
city,  instead  of  coming  here  where  the  air  is  pure 


290  The  Lightning  Conductor 

and  some  of  the  most  beautiful  things  in  the  world 
in  sight  without  turning  our  heads.  It's  such  a 
homelike  hotel,  and  instead  of  sending  to  England 
for  grange  marmalade  made  of  Sicilian  oranges,  the 
way  all  the  other  hotels  seem  to  do,  they  make  it 
themselves  out  of  their  own  oranges;  and  it's  a  poem. 

We've  been  up  Vesuvius,  not  in  the  daytime,  like 
the  humdrum  tourists,  but  by  torchlight,  and  we  saw 
the  moon  rise.  Instead  of  rushing  to  the  Museum 
the  first  thing  and  mooning  vaguely  about  there  for 
hours,  we  saved  it  until  after  we'd  been  out  to 
Pompeii  on  the  motor-car;  then  it  was  a  hundred 
times  more  interesting,  and  we  are  coming  back 
after  Capri  to  pay  another  visit  to  the  busts  of 
Tiberius  and  his  terrible  mother.  I  felt  in  Rome 
as  if  it  were  an  impertinence  to  be  modern  and 
young.  But  in  Pompeii — oh,  I  can't  tell  you  what 
I  felt  there.  I  think — I  really  do  think  that  I  saw 
ghosts,  and  they  were  much  more  real  and  important 
than  I.  It  was  like  entering  the  enchanted  palace  of 
the  Sleeping  Beauty  in  the  wood,  only  a  thousand 
times  more  thrilling  and  wonderful.  I  didn't  feel  as 
if  anyone  else  had  ever  been  there  since  it  was  dug  up, 
except  Brown  and  me — and,  of  course,  Aunt  Mary. 

Brown  knew  about  fascinating  Italian  restaurants, 
and  he  drove  us  up  on  the  automobile  for  tea  to  a 
new  hotel  on  a  high  hill,  almost  a  mountain.  It's 
the  "smart"  thing  for  people  who  know  to  go  up  to 
ea,  which — if  it's  fine — you  have  on  a  great  terrace 
that  is  the  most  beautiful  thing  in  all  Naples.  And 
we  spent  a  whole  morning  up  at  St.  Elmo.  That  is 
going  to  be  my  best  recollection,  I  think,  and — you 


The  Lightning  Conductor  291 

will  laugh — but  the  next  best  will  be  the  Aquarium. 
When  you  came  to  Naples  was  there  a  thing  in  the 
Aquarium  like  the  ghost  of  a  cucumber,  transparent 
as  glass,  with  strings  of  opals  and  rubies  being  drawn 
through  its  veins  every  two  minutes  regularly? 
Brown  says  that  it — or  its  ancestor — has  been  there 
ever  since  he  can  remember.  I  like  that  green  light 
in  the  Aquarium,  which  makes  you  feel  as  if  you 
were  a  mermaid  under  the  sea,  and  inclined  to  swim 
instead  of  walk. 

When  we  were  driving  up  to  the  hotel,  Brown  said 
it  was  almost  as  steep  and  winding  as  the  road  from 
Capri  to  Anacapri.  That  speech,  and  gazing  from 
our  balcony  at  Parker's  over  the  blue  bay  to  the 
island  which  looks  like  the  Sphinx  rising  out  of  the 
sea,  have  made  me  distracted  to  take  the  automobile 
to  Capri.  Brown  "doesn't  advise  it,"  and  thinks 
"we  may  have  great  trouble  in  landing,"  but  that 
makes  me  want  the  adventure  all  the  more;  so  we're 
going  to-morrow — not  just  for  a  day,  like  the  people 
who  don't  care  about  Tiberius,  and  think  the  Blue 
Grotto  is  the  only  thing  to  see — but  to  stay  for 
several  days.  Brown  says  one  could  find  a  new  walk 
on  the  island  for  every  day  of  a  whole  month,  and 
each  would  be  absolutely  different  from  the  other, 
though  Capri  is  only  three  and  a  half  miles  long  and 
about  a  mile  and  a  half  in  width. 

I  feel  as  if  we  were  in  for  something  exciting,  just 
as  you  feel,  I  suppose,  when  you  are  going  to  bring 
off  a  big  coup  "in  the  street." 

Your  Chip-of-the-old-Block, 

MOLLY. 


292  The  Lightning  Conductor 

P.S. — I  wouldn't  post  my  Naples  letter.  I  thought 
if  I  did,  you  might  imagine  that  we  and  our  car  had 
been  engulphed  in  the  sea,  unless  you  got  the  end  of 
the  adventure  tacked  on  to  the  beginning;  so  this  is 
to  be  a  fat  postscript.  Yes,  a  gorged  python  of  a 
postscript. 

At  first  the  dock  people  couldn't  be  persuaded  that 
we  seriously  intended  to  take  an  automobile  to  the 
island  of  Capri ;  and  when  they  realised  that  we  were 
in  earnest,  they  buzzed  with  excitement  like  swarm 
ing  bees.  Everyone  directly  or  indirectly  concerned 
argued  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  and  embroidered  his 
arguments  with  gestures,  nobody  paying  the  slightest 
attention  to  anybody  else.  We  didn't  even  ask  per 
mission  to  go  on  one  of  the  big  passenger  steamers, 
for  we  knew  it  would  be  no  use;  but  there's  a  little 
sea-chick  of  a  thing  called  La  Sirena,  which  plies 
back  and  forth  every  day  with  provisions,  luggage, 
and  passengers,  to  whom  cheapness  is  an  object.  She 
was  our  prey;  and  as  nobody  had  happened  to  make 
a  law  against  transporting  motor-cars,  simply  because 
nobody  had  ever  thought  of  taking  anything  so 
abnormal  since  Tiberius  used  to  send  his  chariots, 
we  could  not  be  restrained. 

All  the  loafers  in  Naples  collected  on  the  quay,  and 
I  don't  believe  anything  would  have  been  done  for  us 
if  Brown  hadn't  calmly  begun  to  widen  the  gangway. 
He  had  suggested  that  I  should  go  over  in  the  morn 
ing  with  Aunt  Mary  on  the  North  German  Lloyd 
that  takes  the  trippers  (as  he  calls  them)  over  for  the 
Blue  Grotto,  and  lunch.  But  I  didn't  see  it  in  that 
light,  for  I  wanted  the  adventure.  Aunt  Mary  didn'i 


The  Lightning  Conductor  293 

want  it  at  any  price,  so  she  was  packed  off  by  her 
self  ;  and  when  the  Lightning  Conductor  slowly  drove 
the  car  on  board  the  little  Sirena  I  was  by  his  side. 
There  was  a  moment  of  awestruck  silence  on  the 
quay;  but  when  Brown  had  gently  manoeuvred 
Balzac  into  position  in  a  clear  space  on  deck,  the 
murmurs  of  doubt  and  disapproval  turned  into  a 
burst  of  delighted  wonder.  Brown  and  I  felt  like 
"variety"  artistes  being  applauded  for  a  clever  turn, 
and  the  appropriate  thing  would  have  been  to  bow 
and  kiss  our  hands. 

But  all  this  was  nothing  to  what  was  in  store  for 
us  at  the  Grande  Marina  at  Capri.  If  we  had  gone 
in  one  of  the  bigger  steamers,  we  should  have  had  to 
get  the  automobile  into  a  small  boat,  or  perhaps  lash 
it  somehow  on  to  two  boats;  but  the  Sirena  is  so 
small  that  she  can  come  up  along  the  landing-place, 
which  was  one  reason  why,  after  Brown  had  made 
inquiries,  he  was  willing  to  go  with  the  fowls  and 
vegetables.  The  nearer  we  got  to  the  island,  the 
more  beautiful  it  looked,  and  as  we  came  in  Brown 
was  telling  me  things  about  Tiberius'  palaces  and 
where  they  had  stood,  when  suddenly  a  shout  went 
up  from  the  quay.  A  group  of  stalwart  women, 
clustered  together  there,  were  laughing  and  pointing 
at  our  car.  They  belonged  to  a  race  of  Amazons 
bred  on  Capri,  whose  daily  work  it  is  to  land  heavy 
goods  and  carry  trunks  on  their  heads  to  the  omni 
buses  and  cabs  in  waiting  at  the  end  of  the  quay. 
Before  we  were  fairly  in,  they  swooped  like  a  pack  of 
wolves  on  the  car, laughing  and  gabbling,  and  somehow 
they  and  Brown  landed  it  on  the  slippery  little  quay 


294  The  Lightning  Conductor 

The  news  that  there  was  an  automobile  on  the 
island  must  have  flashed  around  by  magic  telegraph, 
for  people — swarms  of  people,  more  than  you  would 
have  thought  could  live  on  the  whole  of  Capri — came 
running  from  everywhere  to  see  us  start.  I  should 
have  been  awfully  amused  if  it  hadn't  been  for  one 
thing.  Up  there  at  the  end  of  the  quay,  where  we 
must  pass,  were  half  a  dozen  hotel  omnibuses  and 
a  long  rank  of  smart  cabs,  like  victorias,  with  very 
pretty  little  horses,  whose  faces  looked  incredibly 
short — perhaps  on  account  of  their  huge  blinders. 
They  had  feathers  on  their  heads,  and  their  harness 
was  ornamented  with  all  kinds  of  strange  devices  in 
silver  or  brass.  Sweet  little  pets  they  were,  that  you 
felt  as  if  you  might  ask  into  your  house  to  sit  on  the 
hearthrug;  and  when  they  saw  Balzac  they  all  began 
to  snort  and  shiver  and  act  as  if  they  were  going  to 
faint.  Their  drivers — in  hard,  white  hats  something 
like  our  policemen's  helmets — flew  to  the  poor  beasties' 
heads;  and  some  laughed,  and  some  looked  anxious, 
some  angry. 

Evidently  the  little  horses  had  lived  an  innocent, 
peaceful  life  for  years  on  Capri,  and  had  never  heard 
of  railways  or  steam  rollers,  much  less  automobiles. 
I  was  so  sorry  for  them,  and  wished  I  hadn't  been  so 
headstrong,  but  had  been  guided  by  Brown  when 
he  advised  me  to  leave  Balzac  at  Naples.  However, 
we  couldn't  abandon  the  car  on  the  quay,  so  we  got 
in  and  Brown  started  the  motor.  Oh,  my  goodness! 
every  horse  went  into  hysterics!  Their  drivers  held 
them,  and  said  things  soothing  or  the  reverse,  accord 
ing  to  their  bringing-up,  but  the  little  things  kicked 


The  Lightning  Conductor  295 

and  plunged  and  doubled  up  in  knots,  although 
Brown  drove  by  as  slowly  and  solemnly  as  the 
Dead  March  in  Saul.  I  thought  we  should  never 
get  past,  but  when  we  did  the  worst  was  still  to 
come,  for  we  had  a  steep  road  to  climb  up  the  cliff, 
and  in  the  distance  several  cab-horses  were  trotting 
down.  I  begged  Brown  to  stop  and  let  them  go  by, 
lest  they  should  jump  over  into  space,  so  he  did;  and 
it  was  all  that  he  and  the  drivers  of  the  cabs  could 
do  to  get  the  poor  horrified  little  animals  past  us  at 
all.  That  experience  was  enough  for  me.  Brown 
pointed  up  towards  Anacapri,  far,  far  above  Capri 
proper,  on  a  horn  of  the  mountain,  reached  only 
by  a  narrow  but  splendidly  engineered  road  winding 
like  a  piece  of  thin  wood  shaving,  or  by  steep  steps 
cut  in  the  rock  by  the  Phoenicians  thousands  of  years 
ago.  "No,"  said  I  sadly,  "we'll  never  drive  up  to 
Anacapri  on  the  automobile.  I  shan't  use  it  once 
again  while  we're  on  the  island,  and  all  the  horses 
had  better  be  warned  indoors  when  we  go  down  to 
take  the  boat." 

But  it  was  a  beautiful  drive  up  from  the  quay  to 
the  town  of  Capri  and  our  hotel.  I  couldn't  help 
enjoying  it  a  little,  in  spite  of  feeling  like  an  incipient 
murderess.  I  believe  if  I'd  been  on  the  way  to 
execution  I  would  have  enjoyed  it.  The  road  swept 
round  to  the  left,  ascending  loop  after  loop,  to  a 
saddle  of  the  island  lying  between  two  cliffs,  crowned 
with  the  most  picturesque  ruins  I  ever  saw.  Every 
where  you  looked  was  a  new  picture,  and  oh!  the 
delicious  colour  of  sky,  and  sea,  and  the  dove-grey 
of  the  cliffs!  You  can  see  next  to  nothing  of  the 


296  The  Lightning  Conductor 

town  till  you  come  on  it;  then  suddenly  you  are 
in  a  busy  piazza,  with  an  old  palace  or  two  and  a 
beautiful  tower,  and  everything  characteristically 
Italian,  even  the  sunshine,  which  is  so  vivid  that  it 
is  like  a  pool  of  light.  Here  we  made  a  great  deal 
more  excitement  before  we  drove  under  an  old  arch 
way  and  plunged  down  a  steep,  stone-paved  street 
filled  with  gay  little  shops,  and  ending  with  the 
courtyard  of  our  hotel. 

I  know  you  only  came  to  Capri  with  the  "trippers" 
to  see  the  Blue  Grotto,  and  I  feel  sorry  for  you,  you 
poor  Dad,  because,  though  the  Grotto  is  so  strange 
and  beautiful,  it  is  the  thing  I  care  for  least  of  all. 
Just  think,  you  didn't  even  stay  long  enough  to  see  the 
sunset  turn  the  Faraglioni  rocks  to  brilliant,  beaten 
copper,  standing  up  from  clear  depths  of  emerald, 
into  which  the  clouds  drop  rose-leaves!  You  didn't 
go  to  the  old  grey  Certosa,  for  if  you  had  you  would 
certainly  have  bought  it  and  restored  it  to  use  as 
a  sort  of  "occasional  villa,"  like  those  nice  heroes 
of  Ouida's  who  say,  "I  believe,  by  the  way,  that  is 
mine,"  when  they  are  travelling  with  friends  in  yachts 
and  pass  magnificent  palaces  which  they  have  quite 
forgotten  on  the  shores  of  the  Mediterranean  or  the 
Italian  lakes.  You  didn't  walk  along  a  steep  path 
about  twelve  inches  wide,  hanging  over  a  dizzy 
precipice,  to  the  Arco  Naturale — and  neither  would 
I  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Brown.  I  was  horribly  afraid, 
but  I  was  ashamed  to  let  him  see  that,  so  I  struggled 
along  somehow,  and  it  was  glorious.  We  ended  the 
walk  by  going  down  a  great  many  steps  cut  in  the 
rock  to  the  grotto  of  Mitromania,  where  they  used 


The  Lightning  Conductor  297 

to  worship  the  sun-god  and  sacrifice  living  victims — 
human  beings  sometimes.  You  can  see  the  altar 
still,  and  the  trough  where  the  blood  used  to  run — 
ugh!  and  the  secret  chambers  where  they  kept  the 
victims. 

We  stayed  a  day  and  two  nights  in  the  town  of 
Capri,  and  should  have  stopped  on  till  we  were  ready 
to  leave  the  island,  for  it  is  a  charming  hotel,  with 
a  big  garden  and  a  ravishing  view;  but  I  got  it  into 
my  head  that  I  wanted  to  walk  up  all  the  Phoenician 
steps  to  Anacapri — there  are  about  eight  hundred 
of  them — instead  of  going  up  by  a  mere  road,  no 
matter  how  beautiful.  Of  course,  Aunt  Mary  was 
consumed  with  no  such  mad  ambition,  and  as  she 
had  heard  that  to  go  up  the  steps  was  like  walking 
up  a  wall,  she  was  afraid  to  have  me  try  the  ascent 
alone;  so  I  asked  Brown  to  take  me.  We  started 
after  breakfast;  and  to  go  up  all  the  steps  we  first 
had  to  descend  to  the  very  shore,  near  a  palace  of 
Tiberius',  which  is  buried  under  the  sea  with  all  its 
treasures.  Doesn't  that  sound  like  a  fairy  story? 
Then  we  began  going  up  and  up,  and  we  kept  meet 
ing  peasant  girls  tripping  gaily  down  in  their  rope 
shoes,  singing  together  like  happy  birds,  not  even 
touching  with  their  hands  the  loaded  baskets  on 
their  heads.  They  were  so  beautiful  that  they  were 
more  like  stage  peasants  than  real  ones.  Their 
eyes  were  great  stars,  and  their  clear,  olive  faces 
were  like  cameos  with  a  light  shining  through  from 
behind.  They  were  dressed  in  the  simplest  cotton 
dresses,  but  their  pinks  and  blues  and  purples,  put 
on  without  any  regard  to  artistic  contrast,  blended 


298  The  Lightning  Conductor 

together    as    exquisitely  as    floorers    in    a  brilliant 
garden. 

I  tripped  gaily,  too,  at  first,  but  the  sun  grew  hot 
and  so  did  I.  Still,  on  we  went,  up  the  face  of  the 
cliff,  and  with  every  interval  for  rest  came  a  new  and 
wonderful  view.  By-and-by  we  got  up  so  high  that 
the  row  boats  on  their  way  to  the  Blue  Grotto  looked 
like  little  water-beetles,  with  oars  for  legs;  and 
though  the  waves  were  beating  against  the  rocks, 
we  could  no  longer  see  them;  the  water  appeared 
as  smooth  as  an  endless  sapphire  floor  polished  for 
the  sirens  to  dance  on.  It  was  all  so  entrancing  that 
I  didn't  know  I  was  almost  getting  a  sunstroke; 
besides,  who  would  think  of  sunstrokes  in  January, 
no  matter  how  hot  the  weather?  Brown  remarked 
that  my  lips  were  pale,  but  I  said  I  was  only  a  little 
tired.  In  rather  more  than  an  hour  we  came  to  the 
top,  which  was  Anacapri.  My  head  ached,  so  we  went 
into  a  restaurant  place,  which  turned  out  to  be  very 
famous.  I  sat  on  the  wall  of  a  terrace  looking  over 
a  sheer  precipice  a  thousand  feet  high  until  I  felt 
partly  rested;  then  a  handsome  girl,  evidently  of 
Saracen  blood,  brought  me  delicious  lemonade.  We 
had  started  away  to  walk  into  the  village  of  Ana 
capri,  when  everything  began  to  swim  before  my 
eyes.  Luckily  we  were  close  to  a  house.  It  was 
a  little  old  domed  white  house  with  a  long  vine- 
covered  pergola,  and  it  said  "Bella  Vista"  over  the 
gateway.  I  had  to  lean  on  Brown's  arm  going  in, 
and  the  last  thing  I  remember  was  a  kind-faced  man 
hurrying  to  the  door.  The  next  thing  I  was  in  a  big 
white  bedroom,  sparsely  furnished  and  daintily  neat. 


The  Lightning  Conductor  299 

I  had  fainted  and  they  had  sent  for  a  doctor.  Pres 
ently  he  appeared,  and  afterwards  I  found  out  that 
he  was  quite  a  celebrity — the  "Doctor  Antonio"  of 
Capri.  He  said  it  was  the  sun;  I  hadn't  eaten 
enough  breakfast,  and  I'd  had  a  "heat-stroke" — not 
half  so  bad  as  a  sun-stroke ;  still,  I  ought  to  rest. 

I  was  quite  willing  to  obey  the  prescription,  for 
I  was  falling  in  love  with  the  house,  and  longed  to 
stay  in  it  for  days.  The  room  I  was  in  had  four 
windows,  each  one  looking  out  on  a  view  that  stay- 
at-home  people  would  give  hundreds  of  dollars  to 
see;  and  it  opened  on  to  a  lovely  private  terrace. 
Brown  took  a  message  "downstairs"  to  Capri,  asking 
Aunt  Mary  to  pack  up  and  come  to  the  Bella  Vista, 
which  she  did,  and  we've  been  here  for  two  days. 
I  was  quite  well  in  a  few  hours,  but  I  wouldn't  have 
gone  back  to  more  conventional  comforts  for  any 
thing.  Anacapri  and  our  little  house  seem  as  if  they 
were  in  the  world  on  top  of  the  clouds  which  Jack 
discovered  when  he  climbed  his  beanstalk  up  into 
the  sky.  Why,  the  first  morning  when  I  waked 
here,  and  opened  my  glass  door  on  to  the  terrace 
to  look  at  the  sea,  and  the  umbrella  pines,  and  the 
cypresses  (which  I  seem  to  hear,  as  well  as  see,  like 
sharp  notes  in  music),  four  or  five  large  white  clouds 
got  up  from  the  terrace  where  they'd  been  sitting 
and  sneaked  past  me  through  the  door  into  the  room, 
just  like  the  cows  which,  I  suppose,  the  gods  kept  on 
Olympus  to  milk  for  their  ambrosia.  And  the  sun 
sets,  with  Vesuvius  set  like  a  great  conical  amethyst 
in  a  blaze  of  ruby  and  topaz  glory!  It  is  something 
to  come  to  Anacapri  for.  But  at  the  Bella  Vista 


300  The  Lightning  Conductor 

we  would  not  feed  you  on  sunsets  and  cloud's  milk 
alone.  The  little  landlord  and  landlady  cook  and 
wait  on  us,  and  I  never  tasted  daintier  dishes  than 
they  "create." 

There  are  more  things  than  sunsets  and  pines  and 
cypresses  to  see  too.  One  takes  walks  all  over  the 
island.  One  goes  to  rival  inns  where  rival  beauties 
dance  the  tarantella,  and  vie  in  announcements  that 
Tiberius  amused  himself  by  throwing  victims  in  the 
sea  from  the  exact  site  of  their  houses.  Oh,  every 
thing  is  Tiberius  here.  He  is  regarded  by  the 
peasants  as  quite  a  modern  person,  whom  you  may 
meet  in  a  dark  night,  if  you  haven't  murmured  a 
prayer  before  the  lovely  white  virgin  in  her  illu 
minated  grotto  of  rock.  Mothers  say  to  their 
children,  "If  you  do  that,  Tiberius  will  catch  you"; 
and  the  English  colony  of  Capri  quarrel  over  the 
gentleman's  character,  on  which  there  are  differences 
of  opinion. 

The  most  beautiful  house  I  ever  saw  in  my  life 
is  set  on  the  brow  of  the  precipice  at  Anacapri;  it 
is  a  dream-house;  or  else  its  owner  rubbed  a  lamp, 
and  a  genie  gave  it  to  him.  It  is  long  and  low  and 
white,  and  filled  with  wonderful  treasures  which  its 
possessor  found  under  the  sea — spoil  of  Tiberius' 
buried  palaces.  The  floors  are  paved  with  mosaic 
of  priceless  coloured  marble,  which  Tiberius  brought 
from  distant  lands  for  himself;  a  red  sphinx,  which 
Tiberius  imported  from  Egypt  crouches  on  the  marble 
wall,  gazing  over  the  cliffs  and  the  sea;  Tiberius' 
statues  in  marble  and  bronze  line  the  arched,  open- 
air  corridors.  There's  nothing  else  like  it  in  the 


The  Lightning  Conductor  301 

world  in  these  days,  and  few  men  would  be  worthy 
to  have  it  and  to  live  there;  but  I  think,  from  what 
I  hear,  that  the  man  who  does  live  there  is  worthy 
of  it  all. 

You  will  find  a  rose  and  a  spray  of  jasmine  in  this 
letter.  I  picked  the  rose  for  you,  in  the  pergola,  and 
our  landlady  gave  me  the  jasmine.  I  wish  I  could 
send  you  more  of  the  beauty  of  this  magic  island. 

Your  enchanted 

MOLLY. 


FROM  JACK  WINSTON  TO  LORD  LANE 

TAORMINA,    SICILY, 

January  26. 

My  dear  Montie, 

We  are  at  Taormina!  When  I  say  that,  1 
want  you  to  realise  that  we  have  arrived  at  the  Most 
Beautiful  Place  in  the  world.  Nothing  less  than 
capital  letters  can  express  it.  We  have  had  six 
glorious  days  in  Sicily,  and  it  is  fit  that  these  wild 
ramblings  of  mine  with  the  Goddess  should  end 
here  amidst  such  scenes  of  loveliness  that  even  the 
imagination  can  conjure  up  nothing  more  exquisite. 
For  end  these  ramblings  must;  to  be  continued,  as 
I  hope  (but  dare  not  expect),  in  a  life- journey  in 
which  I  may  wear  my  own  name  shared  then  by 
her.  It  is  through  my  dear,  kind,  little  match 
making  mother  that  I  trust  this  may  be  brought 
about;  for  my  pluck  fails  me  when  I  think  of  con 
fessing  my  imposture  to  the  Goddess. 

I  told  you  in  my  letter  from  Rome  that  at  the 
hotel  there  I  found  a  forwarded  letter  from  the 
mater,  saying  that  on  account  of  the  continued  rain 
and  cold  she  and  the  inevitable  Barrows  had  deter 
mined  to  leave  Rome  suddenly  and  go  to  Naples, 
perhaps  to  Sicily,  in  search  of  sunshine.  She  added 
that  she  had  been  worried  about  me,  as  she  had  not 

30* 


The  Lightning  Conductor  303 

heard  anything  for  weeks,  from  which  it  is  clear  that 
at  least  three  letters  have  somehow  miscarried — 
doubtless  owing  to  her  constant  change  of  address 
and  the  carelessness  of  hotel  people  in  forwarding. 
The  worst  of  it  is  that  I  haven't  been  able  to  re 
assure  her  mind,  as  she  gave  me  no  new  address, 
but  merely  said  that  when  she  was  settled  she  would 
wire.  Of  course,  I  gave  the  hall-porter  at  the 
"Grand"  the  most  explicit  directions  as  to  where 
I  was  to  be  found,  and  tipped  him  well.  The  result 
is  that  on  my  arrival  here  in  Taormina  I  found  a 
telegram  (sent  on  from  Rome)  to  say  that  my 
mother  and  the  Barrows  will  arrive  here  to-morrow 
to  stay  a  week  with  Sir  Evelyn  Haines,  an  old 
friend  of  the  mater's,  who  has,  I  believe,  bought  a 
deserted  monastery  and  turned  it  into  a  fine  house. 
To-morrow,  then,  my  mother  will  be  here;  I  shall 
tell  her  everything,  throw  myself  on  her  mercy,  and 
get  her  to  make  peace  for  me  with  the  Goddess. 
That,  at  least,  is  my  present  plan.  But  who  can  tell 
how  events  may  upset  it  ? 

Well,  as  you  don't  know  Italy  south  of  Naples, 
perhaps  you'd  like  to  hear  something  of  our  Sicilian 
adventures.  Of  adventures,  in  the  strict  sense,  we 
have  had  less  here  than  in  other  places.  If  I  hadn't 
been  certain  that  the  country  was  quite  safe  as  far  as 
brigandage  is  concerned,  I  should  not  have  been  such 
a  fool  as  to  bring  two  ladies  through  it  in  a  motor 
car.  But  we  have  had,  as  I  said,  "  six  glorious  days," 
and  the  Goddess  and  I  are  agreed  that  in  many  ways 
Sicily  is  the  best  thing  we  have  done  on  our  whole 
long  tour. 


304  The  Lightning  Conductor 

We  landed  at  Palermo,  after  a  night  passage  in  a 
comfortable  boat  from  Naples,  leaving  one  world- 
famous  bay  to  enter  another  scarcely  less  beautiful. 
Rarely  have  I  seen  anything  finer  than  Palermo  and 
the  group  of  mountains  round  it  as  we  steamed  in 
at  sunrise  on  a  white  and  gold  morning.  The  ship 
goes  alongside  the  quay,  so  there  was  no  difficulty  at 
all  about  landing  the  car.  It  was  slung,  and  gently 
deposited  on  shore  by  the  ship's  crane,  and  we  drove 
off  on  it  at  once  to  the  Villa  Igiea.  Everything  was 
new  to  me  in  Sicily,  and  I  confess  that  the  Igiea  was 
a  surprise.  One  has  heard  that  Sicily  is  a  hundred 
years  behind  the  times,  and  that  in  accommodation 
the  island  is  deficient.  That  cannot  be  said  any 
longer.  The  Igiea  is  perfect.  Miss  Randolph  re 
luctantly  admitted  that  there  is  nothing  better  in 
America.  In  situation  the  house  is  unique,  lying 
under  the  tall,  pink  Monte  Pellegrino.  It  was  built 
by  the  Sicilian  millionaire  Florio  for  a  sanitorium, 
but  never  so  used.  It  is  a  long  building  of  honey- 
coloured  stone,  standing  in  an  exquisite  terraced 
garden  that  stretches  along  the  sea,  and  actually 
overhangs  it — a  charmingly  irregular  garden,  with 
many  unexpected  nooks,  and  sweet-smelling  flowers, 
palms,  and  all  kinds  of  sub-tropical  plants,  fountains 
playing  in  marble  basins,  and  a  huge,  half-covered 
balcony,  where  everyone  except  insignificant  chauf 
feurs  assemble  for  tea.  Altogether  a  gay  and  delight 
ful  place,  and  it  is  having  the  effect  of  bringing  to  the 
island  a  stream  of  rich  and  luxury-loving  travellers. 

From  afar  I  saw  Miss  Randolph  and  Aunt  Mary 
breakfasting  on  the  big  balcony ;  and  they  could  not 


The  Lightning  Conductor  305 

have  lingered  long  over  their  unpacking,  for  at  ten 
o'clock  I  had  orders  to  be  at  the  hotel  door  with  the 
Napier.  I  knew  no  more  of  Sicily  than  they  did,  but 
it  is  my  metier  to  keep  up  the  reputation  of  a  walking 
encyclopaedia;  therefore,  in  the  small  watches  of  the 
night,  while  the  Goddess  and  her  Aunt  slept  the  sleep 
of  the  just,  I  had  poured  over  guide-books  and  fat 
little  volumes  of  Sicilian  history.  What  I  wasn't 
prepared  to  tell  them  that  heavenly  morning  about 
Ulysses,  Polyphemus,  the  omnipotent  Roger,  and 
other  persons  of  local  interest,  to  say  nothing  of 
the  right  buildings  to  be  visited,  was  not  worth 
telling. 

We  ran  along  the  shore,  past  harbours  and  basins 
where  strangely  shaped  boats  lay  at  anchor  on  a 
smooth,  blue  sea,  with  an  elusive  background  of 
shimmering,  snowclad  mountains;  and  in  a  street, 
like  a  moving  picture  gallery,  we  made  the  acquaint 
ance  of  those  painted  carts  which  are  indigenous 
to  the  island.  Quaintly  rudimentary  as  carts,  these 
extraordinary  vehicles  are  remarkable  as  works  of 
art,  and  the  Goddess  did  exactly  what  I  expected 
of  her — wanted  to  buy  one.  With  her  usual  quick 
discrimination,  she  picked  out  a  fine  specimen,  the 
wheels,  shafts,  and  underwork  a  mass  of  elaborate 
wood-carving,  richly  coloured,  the  boldly  painted 
panels  representing  a  victory  of  Roger's,  attended 
with  great  slaughter.  The  little  horse  was  jingling 
with  bells,  and  almost  overweighted  with  his  tower 
ing  scarlet  plumes. 

"I  must  have  that,"  exclaimed  my  impulsive 
Angel,  "Please  stop  the  car,  Brown,  and  ask  the 


306  The  Lightning  Conductor 

man  how  much  he  will  sell  it  for,  just  as  it  stands — 
harness  and  all,  but  not  the  horse. " 

The  much-enduring  Brown  stopped,  ran  back, 
hailed  the  owner  of  the  cart,  who  was  accompanied 
by  a  dove-eyed  wife  and  seven  Saracenic  children  all 
piled  in  anyhow  on  top  of  each  other  like  parcels. 
Never,  probably,  was  a  man  more  surprised  than  by 
the  question  hurled  at  him,  but  Sicilians  retain  too 
deep  a  strain  of  the  oriental  to  show  that  they  are 
flustered.  He  said  in  a  strange  patois  that  his  cart 
was  the  pride  and  joy  of  the  household;  that  it  had 
been  decorated  by  the  one  man  in  Sicily  who  had 
inherited  the  true  art  of  historical  cart-painting ;  that 
it  was  one  of  the  best  on  the  island,  and  he  had 
expected  it  to  remain  an  ornament  to  his  family 
unto  the  third  and  fourth  generations,  but  that  he 
would  part  with  it  for  the  sum  of  one  thousand  lira. 
I  beat  him  down  until,  with  tears  in  his  magnificent 
eyes,  he  consented  to  accept  two-thirds,  which  really 
was  more  than  the  cart  was  worth,  or  than  he  had 
expected  to  get  when  he  began  to  bargain.  The 
cart  was  Miss  Randolph's,  and  later  that  day  I 
arranged  about  having  it  taken  to  pieces,  boxed,  and 
sent  to  New  York.  She  was  delighted  with  her  pur 
chase,  and  in  such  a  radiant  mood  that  she  thought 
everything  and  everyone  she  saw  perfect,  from  the 
men  milking  goats  to  the  dramatically  talented 
gardien  of  the  beautiful  old  red-domed  San  Giovanni 
degli  Eremiti,  once  a  mosque. 

The  German  Emperor  is  rather  a  hero  of  hers, 
and  when  we  left  the  car  in  the  street  and  visited 
the  Palazzo  Reale  she  was  charmed  to  learn  that  he 


The  Lightning  Conductor  307 

had  pronounced  a  view  from  a  certain  balcony  the 
finest  he  had  ever  seen,  resting  his  elbows  on  the 
iron  railing  and  gazing  out  over  the  city  for  half  an 
hour.  It  really  was  inspiring — the  blue  harbour  and 
the  ring  of  sparkling  white  mountains,  but  I'm  not 
prepared  to  agree  with  the  superlative..  I  put  the 
view  of  Naples  from  St.  Elmo  ahead.  When  the 
Goddess  came  to  see  the  Capella  Palatina  with  its 
gem-like  Arabo- Norman  mosaics,  she  was  moved 
almost  to  tears.  "  It  is  matchless;  the  most  beautiful 
thing  on  earth!"  she  said.  But  afterwards  I  drove 
her  (Aunt  Mary  you  may  take  for  granted)  out  four 
steep  miles  to  Monreale,  and  it  was  well  that  she 
had  saved  a  few  adjectives.  Not  that  she  is  a  girl 
who  scatters  much  small  coin  of  this  kind,  but  she 
has  usually  the  right  word  when  a  thing  does  not 
go  beyond  words.  When  it  does  she  says  nothing, 
except  with  her  eloquent  eyes.  But  in  the  ancient 
cloisters  of  that  old  monastery  I  watched  her  face, 
and  it  was  a  study.  I  believe,  though  each  carved 
capital  on  each  column  is  different  from  the  others^ 
she  could  enumerate  in  order  the  quaint  and  intri 
cate  biblical  designs.  In  one  secluded  and  dusky 
corner  there  was  the  faint  tinkle  of  a  fountain — a 
wonderful  fountain,  very  old,  and  copied  from  a  still 
older  Moorish  memory,  by  some  Arab  who  served 
his  Norman  conquerors.  My  beautiful  girl  was  a 
picture  as  she  stood  gazing  at  it,  leaning  against  a 
pillar,  her  white  dress  half  in  sunshine,  half  in  shadow, 
her  brown  hair  burnished  to  living  gold. 

For  the  modern  part  of  Palermo  she  didn't  much 
care;   the   crowded   Corso   Vittorio    Emanuele;   the 


308  The  Lightning  Conductor 

Quattro  Canti,  which  is  the  Piccadilly  Circus  of  the 
Sicilian  capital,  or  even  the  cathedral.  But  she  loved 
the  Villa  Giulia,  which  she  was  greatly  surprised  to 
find  a  garden,  not  knowing  that  all  gardens  are 
"villas"  in  Sicily;  she  and  Aunt  Mary  went  in  alone, 
while  I  waited  outside  the  gates  in  the  car;  but  her 
beauty  and  pretty  frock  excited  so  much  attention 
that  she  was  quite  embarrassed,  and  I  reaped  advan 
tage  from  her  discomfiture,  being  invited  to  act  as 
guard  in  the  Botanical  Gardens.  I  begged  for  her 
Kodak  there,  to  take  a  photo  (ostensibly)  of  the  big 
building  devoted  to  lectures,  but  quietly  waited  until 
she  had  inadvertently  "crossed  my  path."  Then  I 
snapped  her. 

We  stayed  in  Palermo  for  three  days,  and  even  so 
had  the  barest  glimpse  of  the  place.  If  I  have  luck, 
and  win  Her  forgiveness  first,  and  then  at  last  Her 
self,  maybe  we  shall  come  again  to  Sicily  together, 
lingering  at  all  the  places  we  are  slighting  now.  But 
dare  I  dream  of  it  ? 

On  the  fourth  day  we  set  out  for  a  visit  to  one 
of  the  show  places  of  the  island  Girgenti  of  the 
Temples.  And  now  we  began  to  understand  why 
the  millionaire  Florio,  with  his  four  noble  motor-cars 
panting  in  their  stalls,  has  not  been  able  to  induce 
his  friends  to  stock  their  Sicilian  stables  in  the  same 
way.  We  knew  already  that  Italian  roads  were 
generally  inferior  to  French  ones;  that  it  was  com 
paratively  difficult  to  buy  petrol,  especially  good 
petrol,  or  essence,  in  Italy,  and  I  loaded  up  the  willing 
car  with  several  reserve  tins  on  leaving  the  Igiea; 
but  of  course  I  had  had  to  take  the  state  of  the 


The  Lightning  Conductor  309 

roads  on  hearsay.  The  surprise  and  interest  of  the 
crowd,  even  in  Palermo,  where  Signor  Florio  often 
drives,  warned  us  that  not  many  ventured  with 
"mechanically  propelled  vehicles"  where  we  were 
about  to  venture,  and  I  was  a  little  dubious,  though 
the  Goddess  was  in  the  highest  spirits  and  yearning 
for  brigands.  She  had  heard  at  the  hotel  of  a  very 
picturesque  one  who  owned  a  lair  in  the  mountains, 
and  urged  me  to  pay  the  chivalrous  gentleman  a 
morning  call,  but  I  was  both  obdurate  and  unbe 
lieving. 

We  started;  occasionally,  as  we  progressed,  it  was 
necessary  to  ask  the  way.  The  peasants  we  passed 
on  foot,  on  donkey  back,  or  crowded  into  their 
painted  carts,  were  so  wrapped  in  wonder  at  sight 
of  us  that  it  was  useless  to  shout  at  them  without 
warning;  they  couldn't  recover  themselves  in  time 
to  answer  before  we  had  sped  by.  So  I  adopted  a 
method  I  have  often  found  useful.  I  selected  my 
man  at  a  distance,  singling  him  out  from  his  com 
panions,  and  pointing  my  finger  straight  at  him 
as  I  approached.  This  excited  his  curiosity  and 
riveted  his  attention;  he  was  then  able  to  reply 
when  I  demanded  a  direction. 

From  Palermo  on  the  north  to  Girgenti  on  the 
south  of  the  island  is  something  over  sixty  miles 
the  way  we  went — sixty  miles  of  bad  and  up-and- 
down  road.  Sicily  is  poor,  and  it  could  not  but  be 
to  its  advantage  if  visitors  came  to  it  in  larger 
numbers.  I  should  say  one  of  the  first  things  they 
ought  to  do  is  to  improve  the  roads,  and  make 
them  decently  passable  for  carriages,  motor-cars,  and 


310  The  Lightning  Conductor 

bicycles.  At  present  the  plan  of  mending  the  roads 
is  to  dump  down  so  much  "metal,"  and  leave  the 
local  traffic  to  grind  it  in.  As  everybody  avoids  it 
and  there  is  little  rain,  there  it  stays,  and  in  con 
sequence  patches  of  sharp,  loose  stones  lie  over  the 
roads  the  year  round.  Steer  with  all  the  skill  one 
can,  it's  impossible  always  to  dodge  the  stones,  and 
our  tyres  got  a  good  punishment. 

The  interior  of  the  island,  though  grandly  im 
pressive,  is  unusually  bare,  save  for  its  wild  flowers, 
the  ancient  forests  having  long  since  disappeared. 
Our  road  lay  for  a  time  along  the  sea,  and  then 
inland,  always  mounting  up  into  the  heart  of  the 
mountains,  by  long,  green  valleys  and  over  desolate 
plateaux  where  flocks  of  sheep  and  goats  grazed 
under  the  guardianship  of  wild-looking  shepherds 
and  fierce  dogs,  the  latter  violently  resenting  the 
intrusion  of  the  car  into  their  fastnesses.  We  saw 
few  people  on  the  road,  and  passed  only  the  poorest 
villages;  but  we  had  brought  an  excellent  luncheon 
which  we  ate  by  the  roadside,  we  three  (would  it  had 
been  two!),  alone  in  a  wide  and  solitary  landscape. 
A  very  few  years  ago  such  a  journey  as  this  across 
the  interior  of  Sicily  would  have  been  highly  dan 
gerous  on  account  of  brigands.  As  it  was  we  had 
scowls  from  dark-browed  men  whose  horses  took 
fright  at  us,  but  no  such  encounter  as  we  had  with 
the  peasants  in  France.  An  Englishman  at  Palermo 
who  has  lived  long  in  Sicily  warned  me  that  every 
Sicilian  carries  a  gun,  and  said  that  in  the  wild  in 
terior  they  would  very  likely  shoot  at  the  auto 
mobile  for  the  mere  fun  of  the  thing  as  they  would 


The  Lightning  Conductor  311 

at  any  other  strange  beast  that  was  new  to  them. 
This  wasn't  encouraging  to  hear.  But  though  we 
met  some  truculent-looking  fellows  on  the  road,  their 
sentiments  towards  us  seemed  to  be  those  of  wonder 
rather  than  animosity. 

The  sun  was  sinking  in  a  haze  of  rose  and  gold 
as  we  came  to  the  crest  of  the  long  hill  on  which 
stands  the  town  of  Girgenti,  passed  through  it,  and 
coasted  down  to  the  Hotel  des  Temples.  Beyond 
the  hotel,  which  stands  isolated  between  the  town 
and  the  sea,  we  saw  suddenly  the  great  Temple  of 
Concord,  a  lonely  and  magnificent  monument.  It 
affects  the  imagination  as  Stonehenge  does  when 
you  see  it  for  the  first  time.  The  red  rays  of  the 
sun  shone  aslant  upon  its  splendid  amber-coloured 
pillars  and  colossal  pediments,  revealing  every  detail 
of  the  pure  Doric  architecture.  When  the  smiling 
Signer  Gagliardi  had  received  us  and  allotted  rooms 
to  the  party  (the  best  in  the  house  for  the  American 
ladies  on  their  automobile,  and  a  little  one  for  the 
chauffeur),  I  strolled  in  the  fragrant  old  garden,  and 
leaning  on  the  balustrade  by  the  ancient  well  of 
carved  stone,  looked  long  over  this  wonderful  plateau 
above  the  sea,  where  once  stood  perhaps  the  finest 
assemblage  of  Greek  temples  the  world  has  ever 
seen.  Next  morning  we  went  down  to  see  the 
temples  at  close  quarters.  I  had  been  warned  that 
the  road  would  be  too  rough  for  an  automobile;  but 
a  gallant  Napier  which  had  passed  through  the  forest 
of  the  Landes  and  braved  the  dragon's  teeth  sown 
on  the  roads  of  Sicily's  fastnesses  was  not  to  be 
dismayed  by  a  few  jolting  miles.  Everyone  in  the 


312  The  Lightning  Conductor 

hotel — English,  American,  German — came  out  to  see 
us  start,  predicting  that  if  we  came  back  the  car 
wouldn't,  or  if  it  came  back,  it  would  be — so  to 
speak — over  our  dead  bodies.  Aunt  Mary  was  so 
much  impressed  by  these  dark  prophecies  that  she 
refused  to  accompany  us,  and  engaged  one  of  the 
odd  little  carriages  from  the  ancient  town  of  Girgenti 
bristling  on  the  height  above  our  hotel.  Thus  it 
came  about  that  I  had  my  Goddess  to  myself,  and  in 
her  congenial  company  I  hardly  knew  whether  the 
road  was  rough  or  no.  Certainly  the  good  Napier 
did  not  complain,  and  as  for  the  tyres,  the  roads  of 
Central  Sicily  had  made  them  callous. 

I  thought  then  that  never  was  such  a  day  in  the 
memory  of  man;  but  several  days  have  come  and 
gone  since — also  with  her,  and  a  man's  opinion 
changes.  I  knew  that  in  the  society  of  no  one  else 
would  there  have  hovered  such  a  glamour  over  the 
ruins  of  Greek  glory.  Five  noble  temples  they  are, 
my  Montie,  of  which  two  are  almost  perfect;  the 
others  pathetic  relics  of  past  grandeur,  with  their 
heaped,  fallen  columns.  There  they  stand — or  lie 
prone  with  here  and  there  a  majestic  pillar  pointing 
skyward — in  a  stately  row  between  the  brilliant  blue 
sea  and  the  billowing  flower-starred  plain  on  the  one 
side,  the  hills  and  the  grim  city,  like  a  crow's  nest, 
on  the  other.  Their  sandstone  columns  hold  oyster 
and  scallop  shells  from  prehistoric  ages,  while  here 
and  there  a  broken  vein  of  coralline  stains  the  dun 
surface  as  if  with  blood.  Below  the  towering  tem 
ples  are  shimmering  olive  trees,  silver-green  as  they 
quiver  in  the  warm  breeze,  and  on  this  day  of  ours  a 


The  Lightning  Conductor  313 

myriad  budding  almond-blossoms  were  breaking  at 
their  massive  feet  in  rosy  foam.  All  the  ground  was 
carpeted  with  yellow  daisies,  pimpernel,  and  iris, 
blue-grey  as  my  lady's  eyes.  Together  we  pictured 
processions  of  men  and  maidens,  white-robed,  bear 
ing  urns  and  waving  garlands  of  roses,  chanting  paeans 
in  a  slow  ascent  of  the  amber-hued  temple  steps.  We 
also  were  in  a  mood  to  sing  praises  as  we  drove  back 
to  the  friendly  hotel  in  its  high  eyrie  of  garden. 

In  the  afternoon,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  we  went  up 
into  the  town — it  is  a  bleak  and  gruesome  memory; 
and  next  day  we  had  a  hundred  and  twenty  miles' 
drive  to  Catania,  our  faces  turned  towards  Etna,  the 
Queen  of  Sicily,  which  we  had  not  yet  seen,  but 
longed  to  see.  In  view  of  the  awful  roads  we  were 
likely  to  encounter,  I  had  asked  the  ladies  if  they 
would  mind  starting  at  seven.  They  were  ready  on 
the  minute,  and  I  think  they  were  repaid  by  the 
beauty  of  the  newly  waked  morning,  bathed  in 
diamond-dew,  and  pearly  with  sunrise. 

Again  we  drove  through  strange  country,  sterile 
save  for  the  crowding  prickly  pears  with  their  leering 
green  faces,  tangled  garlands  of  pink,  wild  geranium, 
and  a  blaze  of  poppies  spreading  over  the  meadow 
land  like  a  running  flame.  We  penetrated  the  heart 
of  Sicily,  wound  through  her  undulating  valleys,  and 
were  frowned  on  by  her  ruined  robber-castles;  but 
the  towns  were  discouragingly  squalid,  for  much  of 
our  way  led  through  the  sulphur-mine  district. 

The  true  interest  of  that  day  came  when  from  afar 
off  we  descried  twin  mountains,  each  bearing  a 
huddled  town  on  its  summit.  My  midnight  studies 


314  The  Lightning  Conductor 

warned  me  that  they  were  Castrogiovanni  and 
Calascibetta,  and  I  had  suggested  to  Miss  Randolph 
on  starting  that  even  at  the  risk  of  having  to  drive 
to  Catania  in  the  dark,  we  should  not  miss  a  visit 
to  Castrogiovanni.  At  Palermo  she  had  bought 
Douglas  Sladen's  book,  In  Sicily,  and  Miss  Lorimer's 
travel-romance,  By  the  Waters  of  Sicily,  so  that  she 
was  already  fired  at  the  name  of  Castrogiovanni, 
and  needed  no  persuasion  from  me  to  turn  aside  to 
scale  the  ancient  rock-fortress  that  marks  the  very 
centre  of  Sicily.  I  am  pretty  sure  that  never  be 
fore  has  a  motor-car  climbed  that  winding  road, 
and  I  think  the  whole  population  turned  out  and  ran 
at  our  heels  as  we  drove  slowly  through  the  sombre, 
wind-swept,  eagle-eyrie  of  a  town.  As  it  happened, 
the  day  was  overcast,  and  scudding  clouds  drifted 
coldly  across  the  mountain-top,  showing  us  the 
reason  for  the  great  blue  hoods  that  the  men  wear 
over  their  heads,  their  Saracenic  faces  peering  out 
as  from  a  cave.  We  alighted  in  the  market-place, 
and  leaned  on  the  balustrade  to  see  the  tremendous 
view — all  Sicily  spread  out  below  us,  gleaming  with 
opaline  lights  and  shadows.  Hundreds  of  people 
clustered  curiously  round  us  and  watched  with  dark, 
lustrous  eyes,  as  if  we  had  been  beings  from  another 
world.  We  tried  to  ignore  all  these  silent  watchers, 
who,  Aunt  Mary  said,  gave  her  "a  creepy  feeling  in 
her  spine,"  and  gazed  out  over  the  tumbled  moun 
tains  of  Sicily. 

Suddenly  a  shaft  of  sunlight  broke  through  the 
clouds  and  descended  to  earth  like  a  golden  ladder, 
It  was  the  signal  for  a  transformation  scene.  The 


The  Lightning  Conductor  315 

white  mists  coiling  round  us,  disappeared;  the  clouds 
floated  away  before  a  breath  of  balmy  wind,  and  the 
landscape  lay  bright  and  clear  at  our  feet.  Then 
"Oh!  What  is  that?"  exclaimed  Miss  Randolph. 
I  followed  the  glance  of  her  eyes,  and  far  away  there 
was  a  great  white  floating  cone  of  pearl  soaring  up 
into  the  sky.  Yes,  it  was  Etna! 

At  Castrogiovanni  there  is  no  inn  where  a  lady 
can  stay,  so  when  we  had  seen  the  view  there  was 
nothing  more  to  keep  us.  I  had  stopped  the  motor 
when  we  left  the  car,  and  everyone  crowded  eagerly 
round  us  as  the  ladies  mounted  to  their  places. 
Their  amazement  when  they  saw  me  start  the  motor 
with  one  turn  of  the  handle  was  immense.  A  kind 
of  awed  murmur  went  up  from  the  crowd;  and 
when,  with  a  warning  blast  on  the  horn,  I  drove 
slowly  through  their  parting  ranks,  circled  round  in 
the  market-place,  just  avoiding  a  procession  of 
masked  Misericordia,  and  putting  on  speed,  passed 
swiftly  through  the  streets,  with  a  great  shout  every 
one  started  to  run  after  the  car  We  distanced 
them  easily  (Miss  Randolph  imprudently  showering 
pennies),  and  ran  at  a  fair  pace  down  the  winding 
road  that  led  to  the  valley.  Looking  up,  we  could 
see  the  terraces  and  every  window  of  the  houses 
alive  with  wondering  heads.  Castrogiovanni  will 
remember  for  many  a  day  the  visit  of  the  first 
motor-car  to  its  historic  heights. 

Catania  is,  I  think,  memorable  to  Miss  Randolph 
merely  because  she  bought  there  at  a  tiny  but 
famous  shop  incredible  quantities  of  curious  Sicilian 
amber,  streaked  green  with  sulphur,  absolutely 


316  The  Lightning  Conductor 

unique,  and  valued  as  a  luck-bringer.  She  says  that 
she  has  a  "pocket-piece"  for  each  one  of  her  most 
intimate  friends  in  New  York.  Judging  by  the 
provision  made,  the  name  of  these  intimates  must 
be  legion.  Apart  from  her  opinion,  however,  I 
humbly  venture  to  think  that  Catania  has  its  points, 
if  only  people  stopped  long  enough  to  see  them, 
which  they  don't,  Catania  being  the  Basle  of  Sicily — 
the  place  of  departure  for  somewhere  else.  In  our 
case  the  somewhere  else  was  Syracuse. 

Now  the  Goddess  had  been  looking  forward  to 
Siracusa;  I'm  not  sure  that  she  was  not  by  way 
of  regarding  her  whole  past  as  working  slowly  up  to 
a  sight  of  that  place,  since  she  had  come  to  think  of 
it.  She  had  made  up  her  royal  mind  to  stop  there 
some  time,  dreaming  in  the  quarries  where  the  seven 
thousand  Greeks  languished  in  captivity  while  the 
Siracusan  beauties,  under  red  umbrellas,  derided  or 
brazenly  admired  them.  She  had,  so  to  speak,  made 
a  note  of  Dionysius'  Ear,  and  the  Greek  and  Roman 
theatres,  and  already  she  had  bought  a  photograph 
of  a  strange,  Dante-esque  den  in  the  rocks  which 
resembled  Hades  and  was  called  Paradise.  She 
planned  an  excursion  up  the  little  river  Anapo  to  see 
the  papyrus,  and  the  deep  blue  pool  of  jewelled  fish 
at  the  source;  and  there  were  various  drives  and 
walks  which,  she  thought,  would  keep  her  at  the 
Villa  Politi  at  least  a  week.  But,  on  my  part,  I  was 
equally  determined  that  she  should  not  stop  an  hour 
over  the  two  days  I  had  grudgingly  allotted  her. 
Not  that  I  wasn't  interested  in  Siracusa;  I  was, 
intensely,  but  I  was  and  am  a  good  deal  more  inter- 


The  Lightning  Conductor  317 

ested  in  her  and  the  carrying  out  of  my  own  secret 
plans,  which  can  best  be  accomplished  with  the 
aid  of  a  sympathetic  mother.  I  wanted  to  reach 
Taormina  as  soon  as  possible,  so  as  to  be  on  the  spot 
when  the  mater  arrives.  Naturally  I  did  not  openly 
oppose  the  will  of  a  mere  Brown  against  that  of 
Brown's  mistress.  I  merely  hinted  that  there  was 
said  to  be  a  good  deal  of  white  dust  in  Siracusa, 
and  that  it  was  hot.  I  also  mentioned,  inadvertently; 
that  in  some  of  the  hotels  there  were  mice.  It  was 
a  blow  to  hear  that  Miss  Randolph  liked  mice;  but 
there  was  encouragement  in  Aunt  Mary's  "Oh!  "  of 
horror;  and  I  lived  in  hope. 

In  order  not  to  waste  a  moment,  I  turned  the  car 
aside  on  the  way  to  Siracusa,  and  drove  along  a 
white  road  between  olive-clad  hills  to  the  ancient 
Greek  stronghold  of  Fort  Euryelus,  which  once 
guarded  the  western  extremity  of  that  great  table 
land  which  was  the  splendid  city  of  Siracusa.  You, 
who  know  your  Thucydides  better  than  I  do,  are 
probably  well  up  in  all  the  thrilling  events  which 
took  place  there  four  hundred  years  before  Christ; 
but  the  Goddess  depended  largely  upon  my  lips  for 
bread-crumbs  of  knowledge,  and  her  awed  interest 
in  the  perfectly  preserved  magazines  for  food,  the 
subterranean  galleries,  and  the  secret  sallyport  be 
trayed  to  the  enemy  by  a  traitor,  was  pretty  to  see. 
From  a  tower  of  piled  stones  I  pointed  away  towards 
Etna  with  Taormina  at  its  feet  and  said,  "There — 
there  lies  the  beauty-spot  of  Sicily."  Thus  I  got 
in  my  entering  wedge. 

It  was  four  o'clock  when  we  finally  reached  Siracusa, 


318  The  Lightning  Conductor 

but  I  took  my  lady  and  her  aunt  for  a  glimpse  of 
Arethusa's  fountain  in  the  town  before  driving  them 
into  perhaps  the  most  wonderful  garden  in  the  world 
— the  double  garden  of  the  Villa  Politi.  It  is  double 
because  the  heights,  on  a  level  with  the  white  bal 
conied  hotel,  bloom  with  flowers  and  billow  with 
waving  olive  trees;  while  down  below,  far  below,  lie 
the  haunted  quarries,  starry  now  in  their  tragic 
shadows  with  the  golden  spheres  of  oranges.  The 
latomia  forms  a  subterranean  garden;  when  the 
brilliant  flower-beds  above  are  scintillating  with  noon 
day  heat,  down  there,  under  the  orange  trees  with 
their  white  blossoms,  it  is  always  cool  and  dim,  with 
a  green  light  like  a  garden  under  the  sea. 

The  quarry  is  deep,  with  sheer  white  walls  over 
grown  with  ivy  and  purple  bouganvillia.  It  is  of 
enormous  extent,  winding  irregularly,  crossed  here  and 
there  with  a  slight  bridge,  and  the  hotel  stands  on 
the  very  edge.  Far  away  lies  Siracusa,  a  streak  of 
pearl  against  the  deep  indigo  of  the  sea.  We  went 
down  into  the  latomia  and  wandered  into  its  most 
secret  places.  But  when  we  came  upon  a  pile  of 
skulls  Aunt  Mary  beat  a  retreat.  The  ghosts  of  the 
tortured  Greeks  haunted  the  place,  she  vowed,  and 
lest  she  should  be  lost  in  the  labyrinth  of  the  quarry, 
she  had  to  be  escorted  up  to  the  world  of  mortals. 

Next  day  we  did  most  of  the  things  that  Miss 
Randolph  had  set  her  heart  on,  but  not  all.  My 
alluring  picture  of  Taormina  consoled  her  for  what 
she  had  to  miss,  and  she  consented  to  be  torn  away 
on  the  following  morning. 

Our  drive  to-day  has  been   a  scamper  through 


The  Lightning  Conductor  319 

Paradise.  The  road  we  took  wound  through  orange 
groves,  the  sea  lay  glittering  below  us,  mountains 
towering  above,  each  hill-top  crested  with  a  ruin 
which  had  crumbled  to  decay  when  the  world  was 
young.  My  Goddess  said  that  she  had  never  known 
how  much  truer  than  history  mythology  was  until 
this  magic  morning.  Why,  we  saw  the  stones  that 
Polyphemus  threw  after  Ulysses,  and  the  scene  of 
Acis'  love,  and  always  before  us,  beckoning  us  on, 
was  the  white,  hovering  cone  of  Etna. 

At  last  we  struck  the  little  station  of  Giardini  on 
the  coast,  the  nearest  to  Taormina,  which  lies  some 
hundreds  of  feet  above  on  a  high  shoulder  of  the 
mountains.  An  exquisite  road,  engineered  in  gradual 
curves,  winds  upwards  along  the  mountain  breast, 
and  as  usual  the  Napier  took  it  at  an  easy  ten  miles 
an  hour,  and  could  have  done  it  faster  if  I  had  let 
her.  The  view  grew  fairer  and  fairer  as  we  mounted, 
and  the  coast  line  disclosed  itself  to  north  and  south. 
In  some  three  miles  we  were  at  the  gate  of  the  town. 
Taormina  is  practically  a  long,  straight  street,  at  one 
end  the  Timeo,  at  the  other  the  San  Domenico.  It  is 
simply  a  Sicilian  village,  with  its  Norman  fountain 
and  its  crumbling  palaces,  but  with  a  history  that 
goes  back  to  Greece  in  its  prime.  Above  rises  on 
a  splendid  height  the  old  Castello;  further  inland, 
and  higher  still,  is  the  wild  village  of  Mola  peeping 
over  the  edge  of  a  precipice  that  overhangs  the  valley. 
Twenty  miles  away  floats  the  stately  cone  of  Etna. 
It  is  a  place  of  entrancing  beauty,  and  the  gem  of  it 
all  is  the  ancient  Greek  theatre.  I  suppose  that 
nowhere  in  the  world  have  nature  and  the  noblest  art 


320  The  Lightning  Conductor 

that  ever  adorned  the  earth  combined  in  a  more 
perfect  picture. 

The  resting-place  chosen  by  Miss  Randolph  is  not 
out  of  that  picture,  but  a  part  of  it.  For  five  hundred 
years  it  was  a  monastery.  How  well  those  good  old 
monks  knew  how  to  do  themselves!  They  laid  out 
a  fairy  garden  on  a  gracious  headland  above  the  sea, 
overlooking  a  panorama  the  most  beautiful  in  Sicily. 
They  planted  it  thick  with  orange  and  lemon  trees 
and  flowers  as  sweet  as  bloomed  in  Eden.  Now  the 
monks  are  banished,  but  the  garden  remains,  and 
their  old  home  (with  its  lovely  cloisters,  its  long,  dim 
corridors  pannelled  with  painted  saints,  its  tiled  rooms 
and  deep-set  windows)  opens  hospitable  doors  to 
strangers. 

Aunt  Mary  is  delighted  with  the  San  Domenico, 
because  a  "real  live  prince"  is  her  landlord.  Even 
the  Goddess  says  that  it  makes  her  feel  more  than 
^ver  that  she  is  living  in  a  fairy  story.  Now,  if  only 
the  fairy  godmother  will  come  along  to-morrow,  and 
waving  her  wand  over  Brown,  transform  him  into  a 
worthier  hero  of  that  story,  and  soften  the  heart  of 
the  Princess!  Do  you  think  it  will  be  so?  In  any 
event,  it  has  done  me  good  to  write  you  this.  If  all 
goes  well  I'll  wire.  I  don't  think  there's  much  sleep 
for  me  to-night.  As  soon  as  there's  a  chance  that 
the  mater  can  have  arrived  I  shall  go  down  to  Santa 
Margherita,  Sir  Evelyn  Haines'  place,  and  have  it 
out  with  her. 

Your  somewhat  distracted  but  faithful  friend, 

JACK. 


MISS     SYBIL     BARROW    TO     HER    SCHOOL 

FRIEND,  MISS  MINNIE  HOBSON,  OF 

EDGBASTON,  BIRMINGHAM 

SANTA  MARGHERITA, 
TAORMINA,  SICILY, 

January  28. 
My  darling  Min, — 

You  were  a  saucy  girl  to  chaff  me  like  that 
about  the  Honourable  Mr.  Winston.  It  didn't  matter 
one  bit  to  me  whether  we  got  to  know  him  or  not. 
Why  should  it?  Even  when  he  comes  into  the  title 
he'll  only  be  a  viscount,  and  Lord  Brighthelmston 
may  live  for  years.  It  wasn't  to  meet  him  that  we 
joined  the  viscountess,  though  I  shouldn't  wonder  if 
she  had  something  up  her  sleeve  when  she  asked  us 
to  meet  her  in  Cannes.  Anyway,  she'd  taken  a  tre 
mendous  fancy  to  me.  We  got  on  awfully  well 
together  at  first,  but  she  needs  a  lot  of  living  up  to, 
and  if  she  hadn't  held  a  sort  of  salon  everywhere 
we've  been,  with  all  kinds  of  swells,  home-made  and 
foreign,  kootooing  to  her,  and  being  introduced  to  us, 
I  don't  know  but  I  should  have  persuaded  Pa  to 
drop  the  whole  business  long  ago.  She's  a  nice  old 
lady,  but  sometimes,  when  you  let  yourself  go,  and 
are  having  a  ripping  time,  she  freezes  up  and  looks  at 
you  as  if  you  were  some  unknown  species  of  animal 

321 


322  The  Lightning  Conductor 

in  the  Zoo.  That's  what  I  mean  when  I  say  sne 
wants  a  lot  of  living  up  to;  and  more  than  once  in 
the  last  two  months  or  so  I'd  have  given  my  boots  if 
Pa  and  I  hadn't  bound  ourselves  to  travel  about  with 
her,  but  had  gone  off  on  our  own,  with  a  courier,  like 
that  handsome  one  I  sent  you  the  snapshot  of  with 
the  Yankee  girl  at  Blois.  Well,  anyhow,  it's  all  come 
to  an  end  now;  and  she's  introduced  us  to  dozens  of 
smart  people,  so  there's  nothing  to  regret. 

Pa  and  I  are  going  back  to  Naples  to-morrow  or 
the  day  after,  and  so  home  to  England.  Give  me 
London!  I'm  dying  for  a  good  game  of  ping  pong. 
I  asked  them  to  get  it  at  the  Grand  Hotel  in  Rome, 
but  the  silly  things  didn't.  Addie  Johnson  has 
written  and  asked  me  to  a  swell  dance  she's  giving 
at  the  Kensington  Town  Hall;  I  hope  we  can  get 
back  in  time;  and  I  may  be  able  to  take  a  charming 
cavalier  with  me.  But  I'll  tell  you  about  him  later. 
We've  been  having  scenes  of  great  excitement  for 
the  last  few  days,  which  have  helped  me  to  get 
through  the  time  in  Sicily,  which  otherwise  would 
have  been  pretty  slow,  as  I  don't  care  for  country, 
abroad  or  at  home.  Besides,  the  oranges  and  lemons 
keep  falling  on  your  head,  and  at  night  you  have  to 
throw  gravel  at  the  nightingales  to  keep  the  noisy 
creatures  still.  I  collected  some  on  purpose. 

Well,  I  told  you  how  vexed  Lady  B.  was  because 
"  Jack, "  as  she  calls  him,  couldn't  get  to  Cannes.  He 
was  always  writing  from  different  places  and  making 
excuses,  till  Pa  said  in  his  joking  way,  he'd  bet  that 
"Jack  was  up  to  some  game  of  his  own,"  and  my 
lady  didn't  like  that  a  little  bit.  Finally,  when  Pa 


The  Lightning  Conductor  323 

and  I  got  sick  of  Cannes,  which  is  too  far  from 
Monte  Carlo  to  be  lively,  we  all  went  on  to  Rome. 
That  was  just  after  my  last  epistle  to  you.  It  rained 
cats  and  dogs  in  Rome,  and  I  never  went  into  a 
single  church,  not  even  St.  Peter's.  We  planned  to 
wait  for  "Jack,"  but  your  letter  came,  and  I  was 
afraid  there  might  be  something  in  that  joke  of  yours 
about  his  trying  to  keep  out  of  my  way,  and  I  was 
bound  he  shouldn't  think  I  was  after  him.  There's 
as  good  fish  in  the  sea  as  ever  came  out  of  it  for 
a  girl  who  can  bait  her  hook  as  I  can.  So  when 
Lady  B.'s  neuralgia  got  bad,  we  proposed  Naples, 
and  it  was  very  nice.  But  she  is  a  fussy  old  thing 
and  couldn't  let  well  alone;  she'd  seen  Naples  and 
hadn't  seen  Sicily.  Nothing  would  do  but  we  should 
"run  over."  I  would  have  put  my  foot  down  on  that, 
but  Lady  B.  mentioned  that  she  had  a  friend  at  some 
place  called  Taormina,  an  English  baronet  with  a 
lovely  house,  who  always  had  a  lot  of  nice  people 
staying  with  him.  And  she  said  she'd  often  been 
invited,  and  would  get  an  invitation  for  us  all  for 
a  few  days  if  we'd  go.  I  thought  we  might  meet 
someone  it  would  be  a  good  thing  for  us  to  know,  so 
I  consented;  but  we  were  to  go  first  to  Palermo  and 
Siracusa,  and  work  on  to  Taormina  by  the  time  our 
invitation  arrived. 

Palermo  wasn't  so  bad.  I  never  saw  so  many 
young  men  in  my  life,  all  very  dark,  with  enormous 
eyes,  and  little  moustaches  and  canes,  both  of  which 
they  twirled  a  good  deal  when  they  looked  at  anyone 
they  admired.  But  Syracuse  was  awful.  I  daresay 
it  was  nice  enough  when  you  could  be  a  tyrant  and 


324  The  Lightning  Conductor 

cut  off  your  enemies'  heads,  and  build  gold  statues 
to  yourself;  but  tyrants  are  out  of  their  job  now, 
and  things  have  been  allowed  to  go  down  a  good 
deal  since  their  day.  I  nearly  cried  when  I  saw  what 
sort  of  hole  it  was,  but  our  invitation  to  Sir  Evelyn 
Haines'  (which  we  found  waiting  for  us)  wasn't  for 
that  day,  but  the  next.  It  was  settled  that  we  should 
go  on  by  the  first  train  in  the  morning,  when  a  tele 
gram  arrived  for  Lady  B.  She  was  in  a  twitter,  and 
gave  it  to  Pa  to  read,  and  say  what  he  thought.  It 
was  sent  from  Naples  by  a  perfect  stranger  to  her, 
who  signed  his  name  James  Van  Wyck  Payne;  and 
as  nearly  as  I  can  remember,  it  said,  "Beg  that  you 
will  receive  me  at  Syracuse.  Have  travelled  on  from 
Rome  on  purpose  immediately  on  learning  your 
address.  Have  news  of  vital  importance  to  give  you 
about  your  son." 

Lady  B.  couldn't  think  what  it  all  meant;  but  she 
was  anxious,  and  we  were  curious.  She  and  Pa 
calculated  times,  and  discovered  that  if  we  went 
away  by  the  first  train  we  would  miss  the  mysterious 
Mr.  Payne,  so  it  was  decided  that  we  must  wait  till 
the  next,  and  a  telegram  was  sent  to  an  address  in 
Naples  to  that  effect. 

In  the  morning,  as  early  as  he  could,  he  arrived.  I 
was  on  the  verandah  of  the  hotel,  watching,  dressed  in 
my  travelling  frock,  so  as  to  be  ready  to  get  off  by 
the  next  train.  When  a  stranger  came  running  up 
the  steps  asking  for  Lady  Brighthelmston,  you  can 
believe  I  kept  my  eyes  open,  though  I  pretended  to 
be  reading  an  awfully  exciting  book  of  Guy  Booth- 
by's — really  great!  He  was  young,  and  evidently 


The  Lightning  Conductor  325 

American,  but  very  handsome,  and  the  best  of  form; 
blond,  tall,  and  smooth-faced,  with  such  a  clever 
expression,  and  unfathomable  eyes.  He  was  shown 
in;  but  as  Lady  B.'s  sitting-room  had  a  window 
opening  on  the  verandah,  with  the  blinds  only  half 
shut,  I  could  presently  hear  from  where  I  sat  a 
murmur  of  voices  which  I  knew  to  be  hers  and  his. 
Just  as  Pa  had  joined  me,  and  was  asking  whether 
the  gentleman  had  turned  up  yet,  there  came  a  stifled 
shriek  from  Lady  B.'s  room.  We  jumped  up,  rushed 
to  the  window,  and  met  her  there  as  she  was  running 
out  to  call  us,  crying,  with  Mr.  Payne  at  her  back. 
We  went  in,  and  she  made  him  tell  his  story,  which 
was  very  complicated.  However,  we  soon  under 
stood  that  the  Honourable  Mr.  Winston's  'chauffeur 
had  stolen  his  motor-car,  and  his  watch  (which  Mr. 
Payne  had  got  out  of  pawn  and  shown  to  Lady  B.) 
and  his  clothes,  and  probably  murdered  him.  Lady 
B.  hadn't  had  any  letter  for  ages;  she  had  supposed 
that  was  because  she  was  travelling  about  so  much 
lately  and  had  missed  them,  but  now  she  saw  that 
anything  might  easily  have  happened  to  her  son. 
Everything  was  frightfully  confused  and  exciting, 
and  while  Pa  tried  to  soothe  Lady  B.,  Mr.  Payne 
and  I  stepped  out  on  the  verandah  to  talk  things 
over  quietly,  as  I  had  kept  my  head.  He  showed 
wonderful  detective  gifts,  and  from  some  details  he 
told  me  about  the  girl  and  a  middle-aged  American 
lady,  friends  of  his,  whom  the  chauffeur  had  deceived, 
I  began  to  think  it  might  be  the  party  I  had  seen  in 
Blois,  only  with  a  different  car;  but  that,  as  I  said  to 
Mr.  Payne,  must  have  been  before  any  tragedy  had 


326  The  Lightning  Conductor 

taken  place.  He  thought  I  was  probably  right  about 
the  identity;  and  to  make  sure,  I  went  upstairs  to 
one  of  my  boxes  which  wasn't  locked  yet,  and  rooted 
out  the  negative  of  that  snapshot  I  sent  you  from 
Blois.  We  looked  at  the  film  together,  each  holding 
it  with  one  hand  to  keep  it  from  curling, 'and  Mr. 
Payne  exclaimed,  "That's  the  man!  that's  the 
scoundrel!  "  I  had  thought  the  face  awfully  good- 
looking,  but  it  didn't  seem  the  same  to  me  then, 
and  I  had  to  admit  it  might  be  that  of  a  murderer. 
I  proposed  showing  it  to  Lady  B.,  but  she  was  fright 
fully  upset  already;  and  Mr.  Payne  said  he  didn't 
see  that  it  would  do  any  good  to  harrow  up  her 
feelings  still  more  now,  and  perhaps  if  we  did  she 
wouldn't  be  able  to  undertake  a  journey.  If  he'd 
known  in  time  that  we  were  going  on  to  Taormina, 
he  wouldn't  have  kept  us  at  Syracuse,  but  would 
have  joined  us  at  Taormina;  for  he  had  news  that 
Miss  Randolph,  that  stuck-up  American  girl,  and 
her  aunt  had  just  arrived  there  the  night  before,  with 
poor  Mr.  Winston's  stolen  car,  which  the  wicked 
chauffeur  was  driving.  He — Mr.  Payne,  I  mean — 
had  written  from  Rome  to  the  girl's  father  in  New 
York,  that  she  was  in  the  power  of  an  abandoned 
ruffian,  and  the  father  had  started  off  to  the  rescue 
the  very  day  after  receiving  the  letter.  He  had 
cabled  to  Mr.  Payne  in  Rome,  and  the  message  had 
been  forwarded  to  Naples,  but  in  that  way  they  had 
missed  each  other,  and  Mr.  Payne  only  knew  that 
the  old  man  had  been  following  the  girl  about  from 
pillar  to  post;  that  he'd  heard  in  Naples  that  she'd 
gone  to  Palermo,  and  had  proceeded  there  himself. 


The  Lightning  Conductor  327 

Probably,  when  he  found  that  she  had  left,  if  the 
hotel  people  could  tell  him  where  she  was  likely  to 
be  by  this  time,  he  wouldn't  wait  for  an  ordinary 
train,  but  would  take  a  special.  Mr.  Payne  said  he 
was  that  kind  of  man;  and  if  Lady  B.  would  go  on 
now  by  the  next  train  to  Taormina,  everybody  might 
confront  the  chauffeur  and  denounce  him  at  once. 
By  everybody  he  meant  himself,  Lady  B.,  and  this 
Mr.  Randolph,  of  New  York.  I  was  very  much 
interested,  of  course,  and  naturally  wanted  to  be  in 
at  the  death,  which  Mr.  Payne  seemed  quite  pleased 
to  have  me  do,  for  we  had  by  this  time  made  up 
great  friends;  we  seemed  so  congenial  in  many  ways, 
and  he  knows  such  quantities  of  swell  people  every 
where.  The  Duke  of  Burford  is  a  great  chum  of 
his,  and  so  is  that  handsome  Lord  Lane  that  you 
were  wild  to  meet  last  year  and  couldn't  get  to  know. 
But  perhaps  you  shall  yet,  dear.  Who  can  tell? 

Poor  Lady  B.  was  as  weak  as  a  rag,  but  determined 
on  revenge,  and  Pa  kept  her  up  on  a  raw  egg  in 
wine.  We  took  the  train  for  Taormina.  It  was  a 
strange  journey.  We  four  reserved  a  carriage  for 
ourselves,  and  Lady  B.  asked  questions  till  she  was 
too  exhausted  to  speak.  Then  she  sat  with  her  eyes 
shut,  and  salts  to  her  nose,  trying  to  strengthen  her 
self  for  what  was  to  come,  while  Mr.  Payne  and  I 
talked  in  low  voices  about  people  we  knew.  Some 
times  I  intimated  I  knew  them,  too,  and  others  still 
more  swell,  for  I  didn't  like  to  seem  out  of  it;  and 
luckily  I'd  read  a  great  deal  about  them  in  the 
Society  papers,  so  I  was  never  at  a  loss. 

Mr.  Payne  was  in  communication  with  the  Amer- 


328  The  Lightning  Conductor 

ican  girl's  aunt,  who  was  partly  in  his  confidence;  and 
he  knew  from  her  that  they  would  be  at  the  San 
Domenico,  at  Taormina.  It  was  afternoon  when  we 
arrived,  and  as  we  didn't  want  to  waste  a  moment, 
we  drove  past  the  very  house  where  we  were  invited 
to  stay,  up  to  the  San  Domenico,  where  the  wretched 
pretender  was  to  be  run  to  earth.  It  was  a  very  long, 
mountainous  drive,  and  Lady  B.  was  trembling  with 
excitement.  She  wanted  to  have  it  out  of  the  man 
what  he  had  done  with  her  son,  and,  I  do  believe,  if 
it  had  been  back  in  old  times,  she  would  have  been 
in  a  mood  to  put  out  his  eyes  with  ued-hot  irons,  or 
flay  him  alive  to  make  him  confess.  She  didn't  say 
much,  but  her  eyes  were  bright,  and  there  was  such 
a  flush  of  excitement  on  her  face  that  she  looked 
quite  pretty  and  almost  young. 

At  last  we  got  up  to  the  hotel,  and  had  to  walk 
through  two  courtyards ;  for  it  used  to  be  a  monastery, 
and  is  very  quaintly  built.  A  porter  walked  up  to 
see  what  we  wanted,  and  Mr.  Payne  asked  for  Miss 
Randolph  and  Miss  Kedison.  The  man  said  they 
had  gone  out  on  donkeys  for  an  excursion  up  in  the 
mountains  to  a  place  called  Mola,  which  we  could 
see  from  the  hotel,  overhanging  a  precipice.  He 
said  they  hadn't  been  gone  long,  and  probably 
wouldn't  be  back  for  at  least  two  hours.  Then 
Mr.  Payne  inquired  if  their  chauffeur  who  drove 
their  motor-car  was  staying  at  the  hotel,  and  if  he 
had  gone  with  the  ladies. 

The  porter  answered  that  the  chauffeur  was  at 
another  hotel,  and  that  he  had  not  joined  the  excur 
sion,  but  he  had  seen  the  ladies  off  with  their  donkeys 


The  Lightning  Conductor  329 

and  guide.  When  the  man  began  to  understand 
that  we  were  all  more  interested  in  the  where 
abouts  of  the  chauffeur  than  of  the  mistresses,  he 
added  that  one  of  the  servants  of  the  hotel  who  had 
just  been  down  to  the  station  had  mentioned  meeting 
the  chauffeur  in  very  smart  clothes  (quite  different 
from  when  he  had  been  with  the  ladies)  going  down 
the  hill  towards  Santa  Margherita,  Sir  Evelyn  Haines' 
house,  where  there  was  a  big  reception  on. 

While  we  were  talking  another  man  came  out — a 
sort  of  under-porter,  and  when  he  heard  our  porter 
telling  that  Miss  Randolph  had  gone  up  to  Mola, 
he  said  in  that  case  he  had  made  a  great  mistake, 
for  he  had  sent  an  American  gentleman  who  had 
been  inquiring  for  her  to  the  wrong  place.  He  had 
supposed  that  she  would  be  at  Sir  Evelyn  Haines' 
house,  for  a  bazaar  was  being  held  there  for  the 
benefit  of  a  charity,  and  almost  all  the  English  and 
Americans  at  the  hotel  San  Domenico  and  the  other 
Taormina  hotels  had  gone  to  it.  The  gentleman 
seemed  in  a  great  hurry,  the  porter  had  noticed;  and 
he  had  said  that  he  had  come  from  Palermo  in  a 
special  train,  so  as  not  to  waste  any  time. 

"Ah,  didn't  I  tell  you  what  Chauncey  Randolph 
would  do?"  exclaimed  Mr.  Payne,  turning  to  me 
as  if  we  were  old  friends.  I  believe  Chauncey 
Randolph  has  the  reputation  of  being  a  millionaire; 
but  I  don't  suppose  he's  got  any  more  money  or  is 
a  bit  more  important  than  Pa. 

We  had  kept  our  cab,  which  was  waiting  outside, 
and  after  a  few  minutes'  discussion  between  Lady  B. 
and  Mr.  Payne,  it  was  decided  that  we  should  drive 


330  The  Lightning  Conductor 

straight  down  to  Sir  Evelyn  Raines',  where  probably 
the  horrible  chauffeur  was  audaciously  passing  him 
self  off  as  the  Honourable  Jack  Winston,  whom  Sir 
Evelyn  had  never  met. 

Just  as  Pa  was  helping  Lady  B.  into  a  cab,  Mr. 
Payne  exclaimed  "Molly!"  and  I  looked  over  my 
shoulder  to  see  the  stuck-up  thing  I  had  met  in 
Blois.  She  was  dressed  differently,  but  I  recognized 
her  at  once.  I  suppose  some  people  would  call  her 
pretty,  but  I  don't  in  the  least,  though  she  may  be 
the  sort  of  girl  men  like.  She  was  walking,  and  her 
fat  aunt  was  hanging  on  to  her  arm,  and  an  Italian 
man  leading  two  donkeys  was  close  behind  them. 

"Why,  Jimmy!"  she  answered,  appearing  to  be 
very  surprised,  and  glancing  from  Mr.  Payne  to 
Lady  B.,  from  her  to  Pa  and  me.  She  shook  hands, 
then  walked  up  to  the  cab  to  speak  to  Lady  B.,  and 
had  begun  explaining  that  her  aunt  had  had  a  fall 
off  the  donkey  she  was  riding,  and  they  had  given 
up  their  excursion,  when  Mr.  Payne  interrupted  her 
to  do  a  little  explaining  on  his  side. 

She  stood  looking  perfectly  dazed,  as  he  told  her 
how  it  was  now  proved  beyond  a  doubt  that  her 
chauffeur,  of  whom  she  thought  so  highly,  was  a 
fraudulent  villain,  a  thief,  and,  it  was  to  be  feared, 
even  worse.  He  said  that  he  had  suspected  for  some 
time,  but  now  his  suspicions  were  confirmed  by  Lady 
Brighthelmston,  who  believed  that  some  terrible  evil 
had  fallen  upon  her  son  through  this  Brown.  Miss 
Kedison  chimed  in,  and  so  did  Lady  B.,  and  I  don't 
much  wonder  that  it  took  the  girl  some  time  to 
understand  what  they  were  all  driving  at,  sharp  as 


The  Lightning  Conductor  331 

these  Yankee  women  are.  When  it  was  clear  what 
they  accused  the  chauffeur  of  doing,  she  said  it  was 
absolutely  impossible,  that  there  was  certainly  some 
extraordinary  mistake,  and  she  would  not  believe 
any  harm  of  Brown.  Then  Mr.  Payne  told  her  that 
anyhow  her  father  believed,  and  owing  to  a  warning 
letter,  had  come  all  the  way  from  New  York  to  take 
her  from  the  clutches  of  an  unscrupulous  scoundrel 
capable  of  anything.  She  was  surprised  at  that. 
Evidently  her  father  hadn't  let  her  know  he  was 
coming.  Perhaps  he  thought  that  if  he  did,  she'd 
elope  with  the  chauffeur.  She  had  gone  from  red  to 
white,  from  white  to  red,  while  the  three  poured 
accusations  on  her  favourite ;  but  when  she  heard  her 
father  was  actually  on  the  spot,  she  really  did  look 
rather  handsome  for  a  moment.  It  was  as  if  a  light 
from  inside  illuminated  her  face.  "Dad  here!"  she 
exclaimed,  with  her  eyes  shining.  "Oh,  then  every 
thing  will  be  all  right !  Where — where  is  he  ? " 

"Gone  down  to  look  for  you  at  the  house  of  Lady 
Brighthelmston's  friend,  Sir  Evelyn  Haines,  where 
your  chauffeur  is  swaggering  about  like  a  wolf  in 
sheep's  clothing  to  be  presently  delivered  into  our 
hands,"  replied  Mr.  Payne  solemnly.  "Come  with 
us,  meet  your  father,  and  be  convinced  with  your 
own  eyes  of  that  scoundrel's  guilt." 

"If  my  father  is  there  looking  for  me,  I  will  go," 
said  the  girl.  "Aunt  Mary,  you  had  better  stay  here 
and  lie  down." 

That  is  the  way  these  American  girls  order  their 
middle-aged  relatives  about.  If  I  told  Pa  to  stop 
somewhere  and  lie  down,  he'd  tell  me  to  go  hang, 


332  The  Lightning  Conductor 

but  Aunt  Mary  didn't  seem  to  mind.  She  just 
bowed  to  everybody  and  trotted  away,  as  meek  as 
a  fat  white  lamb,  and  Mr.  Payne  engaged  another 
cab  for  Miss  Randolph  and  himself,  and  we  drove 
down  the  hill.  Those  two  were  in  front  of  us,  and 
I  could  see  him  talking  to  her  all  the  way  like  a 
father-confessor,  his  face  close  to  her  ear;  but  she 
never  looked  round  at  him  once. 

I  was  almost  as  much  excited  as  Lady  B.  by  the 
time  we  stopped  at  the  gate  of  Sir  Evelyn  Haines' 
house,  which  used  to  be  a  monastery.  Most  things 
in  Sicily  seem  to  have  been  monasteries  or  palaces. 
Our  luggage  had  been  sent  straight  up  there  from 
the  railway  station  in  another  cab,  for  owing  to 
Lady  B.'s  state  of  mind  at  Syracuse,  no  word  had 
been  sent  as  to  what  train  we  would  arrive  by.  You 
don't  drive  in,  for  it  isn't  a  modern  gentleman's  place 
at  all,  but  has  been  left  as  much  as  possible  as  it  was 
in  old,  old  days.  We  walked,  Lady  B.  leaning  on 
Pa's  arm,  I  by  her  other  side,  and  Mr.  Payne  behind 
us  with  Miss  Randolph,  because  she  wouldn't  go 
ahead,  though  I  know  he  wanted  to. 

It's  really  a  beautiful  place,  for  people  who  like 
that  old-fashioned,  queer  kind  of  thing,  with  a  lovely 
garden,  full  of  all  kinds  of  flowers  such  as  you  see 
at  home,  and  quite  tropical  ones,  too.  There  were 
a  great  many  well-dressed  people  walking  about,  for 
the  charity  bazaar  was  on,  and  no  doubt  everybody 
was  glad  of  a  chance  to  get  into  the  house  and  talk 
about  it  afterwards  as  if  they  knew  Sir  Evelyn  and 
had  been  his  guests.  There  were  tables  set  out 
under  the  trees,  and  tea  was  being  carried  round. 


The  Lightning  Conductor  333 

Suddenly  I  heard  Miss  Randolph  exclaim,  "There's 
Dad!  "  and  at  the  same  moment  she  ran  ahead  of 
us,  across  the  grass  to  where  a  tall,  big  man  with 
short,  curly  grey  hair  and  a  smooth-shaven  face 
stood  under  a  tree  talking  to  another  man  whose 
back — which  was  turned  to  us — looked  a  tiny  bit 
familiar. 

At  once  Mr.  Payne  stepped  forward,  and  said 
eagerly,  "Lady  Brighthelmston,  the  man  Brown  is 
here.  He  has  got  hold  of  Miss  Randolph's  father. 
Heaven  knows  what  may  have  passed.  Come  with 
me,  and  confront  him  with  a  question  about  your 
son." 

With  a  sort  of  gasp  the  poor  old  lady  allowed 
herself  to  be  hurried  across  the  lawn,  and  I  begged 
Pa  to  come  along  quick,  because  I  didn't  want  to 
miss  Mr.  Payne's  great  moment. 

Miss  Randolph  had  got  to  the  tall,  grey-haired 
man,  and  was  holding  out  her  hands,  without  a  word, 
when  Mr.  Payne  said  in  a  sharp  voice,  "Brown!" 
The  other  man  turned.  It  was  the  courier  I  snap 
shotted  in  Blois. 

"  Jack  !  "  cried  Lady  B.  And  then  it  was  our  turn 
to  be  surprised. 

We  supposed  at  first  that  she'd  gone  mad;  but, 
my  dear  girl,  it  was  true.  The  murderous  chauffeur 
was  the  Honourable  Jack!  But  I  do  believe  he  was 
ashamed  of  himself  for  the  silly  trick  he'd  played, 
for  all  he  laughed  and  showed  his  white  teeth, 
because  he  was  as  red  as  a  beet  through  his  brown 
skin,  and  pulled  his  moustache,  trying  to  talk,  when 
his  mother  interrupted  him  by  exclaiming,  and 


334  The  Lightning  Conductor 

asking  questions  which  she  never  gave  him  a  chance 
to  answer.  And  while  he  talked  to  his  mother> 
attempting  to  brazen  it  out,  he  looked  at  Miss  Ran 
dolph,  but  she  kept  her  head  turned  away. 

As  for  poor  Mr.  Payne,  I  was  sorry  for  him.  He 
had  meant  so  well,  and  worked  so  hard  for  every 
body's  good,  and  now  it  had  come  to  nothing.  He 
did  his  best  to  make  himself  right  with  his  American 
friend,  saying,  "Mr.  Randolph,  at  all  events,  this  man 
has  insulted  your  daughter,  travelling  around  Europe 
with  her  under  false  pretences.  What  do  you  intend 
to  do  about  it?" 

But  the  big  man  answered,  in  a  slow,  drawling 
way,  as  if  he  were  just  ready  to  laugh,  "Well,  I 
guess  I  won't  do  much.  Mr.  Winston  and  I  met 
here  accidentally,  and  talked  to  each  other  awhile 
before  either  of  us  knew  who  the  other  was;  and 
when  we  did  know,  why,  he  was  able  to  give  me 
a  pretty  satisfactory  explanation.  I  guess  there's 
nothing  much  that's  wrong;  and  I  hope  Mr.  Winston 
will  introduce  me  to  his  mother." 

Aren't  Americans  queer?  I  will  say,  though,  that 
the  girl  didn't  seem  inclined  to  take  things  so  calmly. 
Her  cheeks  were  scarlet,  and  her  eyes  looked  about 
twice  too  big  for  her  face  with  anger  or  something 
like  it. 

Pa  and  I  were  rather  out  of  the  "durbah,"  for  like 
the  bat  in  the  fable,  we  were  neither  bird  nor  beast, 
and  had  to  stand  aside  while  the  fight  between  the  two 
kinds  of  creatures  went  on.  By-and-by  Mr.  Payne 
joined  us,  poor  fellow,  and  I  did  what  I  could  to  con 
sole  him,  telling  him  that  was  always  the  way  in  this 


The  Lightning  Conductor  335 

world,  with  the  well-meaning,  unselfish  people.  He 
was  awfully  grateful  for  my  kindness,  and  when  he 
heard  that  Pa  and  I  had  just  that  very  minute  been 
talking  things  over  and  deciding  we'd  had  enough  of 
being  abroad,  he  asked  if  we'd  mind  his  travelling 
with  us  as  far  as  England,  where  he  might  stop  for 
a  few  weeks,  and  drive  about  in  his  motor-car.  Of 
course,  I  said  we  wouldn't  mind;  so  I  may  bring  him 
to  the  dance  at  Kensington  Town  Hall,  if  he  isn't  too 
big  a  swell  for  that  set. 

Of  course,  Sir  Evelyn  Haines  soon  found  us  out, 
and  was  very  kind;  but  Mr.  Payne  would  go,  and 
I've  hardly  seen  anything  of  Lady  B.  since,  though 
it's  now  after  dinner.  I  suppose  the  Honourable 
Jack  is  by  way  of  being  in  love  with  Miss  Randolph, 
or  else  he  wants  her  dollars,  which  is  most  likely, 
considering  the  foxy  way  he  seems  to  have  gone 
about  the  business.  But  these  American  girls  think 
such  a  lot  of  themselves,  that  they  don't  like  being 
played  with;  and  judging  by  the  look  on  her  face 
this  afternoon  when  she  heard  the  truth,  she  was 
hurt  and  angry  all  the  way  down  to  the  quick.  I 
shouldn't  wonder  if  she  refused  to  have  anything 
more  to  do  with  him,  for  all  he  seemed  to  have  got 
on  the  soft  side  of  her  father;  and  I  must  say,  in  my 
opinion,  it  would  serve  him  right  if  she  did. 

Good-bye,  my  child.  It's  late,  and  I'm  tired.  I 
don't  care  a  rap  how  the  thing  does  turn  out.  It 
isn't  my  business. 

Your  affectionate 

SYB, 


MOLLY  RANDOLPH  TO  HERSELF 

January  28,  HOTEL  SAN  DOMENICO, 
TAORMINA. 

I'm  going  to  write  it  all  down  just  as  it  happened, 
and  see  how  it  looks  in  black  and  white.  Then  per 
haps  I  can  judge  better  whether  I've  been  very 
weak  and  undignified,  and  a  lot  of  other  things 
which  I've  always  been  sure  I  never  would  be,  under 
any  provocation;  or  whether  I've  done  what  no  nor 
mal  girl  could  help  doing. 

It's  the  sort  of  thing  one  couldn't  possibly  tell 
anybody,  not  even  one's  dearest  school-friend.  I  did 
promise  Elise  Astley  that  if  I  ever  got  engaged,  she 
should  be  told  exactly  what  He  said,  and  what  I  said, 
but  then  I  didn't  know  how  differently  one  would 
feel  about  it  afterwards;  besides,  I'm  not  engaged. 
I  only — no,  this  isn't  the  way  I  meant  to  begin.  I 
am  afraid  I'm  getting  a  good  deal  mixed.  I  must 
be — more  concise. 

Note  i.  If  I  think  when  I  come  to  read  this  over 
that  I  have  not  demeaned  myself  like  a  self-respect 
ing,  patriotic  American  girl,  I  will  tear  this  up  and 
write  a  letter  to — a  Certain  Person. 

Note  2.  If,  on  the  contrary,  I  decide,  on  mature 
deliberation,  that  I  could  not  have  acted  otherwise, 
I  will  keep  this  always  in  the  secret  drawer  of  my 

336 


The  Lightning  Conductor  337 

writing-desk,  where  I  can  take  it  out  and  look  at  it 
at  least  once  every  yeat  until  I  am  an  old  woman — 
ever  so  much  older  than  Aunt  Mary. 

When  Jimmy  Payne  suddenly  hurled  himself  at 
me  out  of  a  cab  (just  as  Aunt  Mary  and  I  and  a 
donkey  were  trailing  disconsolately  down  from  Mola) 
and  exploded  into  fireworks  calculated  to  blow  my 
poor  Lightning  Conductor  into  fragments,  I  threw 
cold  water  on  his  Roman  candles  and  rockets. 

All  the  same,  though,  I  felt  as  if  I  had  been  dipped 
first  into  boiling  hot,  then  freezing  cold  water  myself. 
I  couldn't,  wouldn't  and  shouldn't  believe  any  of 
Jimmy's  sensational  accusations  of  Brown,  and  I  de 
fended  him  whenever  Jimmy  would  let  me  get  in  a 
word  edgewise.  But  when  he  told  me  that  Dad  had 
come  half  across  the  world  from  New  York  to  Sicily 
on  the  strength  of  his  statements,  I  was  wild — partly 
with  anger  and  partly  with  anxiety  to  see  my  dear 
old  Angel  "immediately  if  not  sooner." 

I  don't  remember  a  word  Jimmy  said  to  me,  driv 
ing  down  to  Sir  Edward  Haines',  where  Dad  had 
gone  expecting  to  find  me.  I've  just  a  hazy  recol 
lection  of  being  hurried  through  a  beautiful  garden; 
I  knew  that  poor  Lady  Brighthelmston  (piteously 
worried  about  her  son)  and  a  rather  common  girl 
and  her  father,  whom  we'd  stumbled  across  in  Blois, 
were  with  us.  Their  cab  had  come  behind  ours.  I 
saw  Dad  in  the  distance,  talking  to  Brown,  who 
looked  less  like  a  hired  chauffeur  than  ever,  and  then 
— then  came  the  thunderbolt. 

It  was  almost  as  difficult  to  believe  at  first  that 
he  had  tricked  me  by  pretending  to  be  Brown,  when 


338  The 'Lightning  Conductor 

he  was  really  Mr.  Winston,  as  it  would  have  been 
to  believe  Jimmy  Payne's  penny-dreadful  stories. 
But  you  can't  go  on  doubting  when  a  virtuous  old 
lady  claims  a  man  as  her  own  son.  I  had  to  accept 
the  fact  that  he  was  Jack  Winston. 

For  an  instant  I  felt  as  if  it  were  a  play,  and  I  were 
some  one  in  the  audience,  looking  on.  It  didn't  seem 
real,  or  to  have  anything  to  do  with  me.  Then  I  caught 
his  eyes.  They  were  saying,  "Do  forgive  me";  and 
with  that  I  realized  how  much  there  was  to  forgive. 
He  had  made  me  behave  like  a  perfect  little  fool, 
giving  him  good  advice  and  tips — actually  tips  A— 
telling  him  (or  very  nearly)  that  he  was  "quite  like  a 
gentleman,"  and  hundreds  of  other  outrageous  things 
which  all  rushed  into  my  mind,  as  they  say  your 
whole  past  life  does  when  you  are  drowning. 

I  gave  him  a  glance — quite  a  short  one,  because 
I  could  hardly  look  him  in  the  face,  thinking  of  those 
tips  and  other  things. 

Then  I  turned  away,  and  began  talking  to  Dad; 
but  very  likely  I  talked  great  nonsense,  for  I  hadn't 
the  least  idea  what  I  was  saying,  except  that  I  kept 
exclaiming  the  same  five  words  over  and  over,  like 
a  phonograph  doll:  "  I  am  glad  to  see  you!  I  am  glad 
to  see  you!" 

Perhaps  I  had  presence  of  mind  enough  to  invite 
the  dear  thing  to  take  a  stroll  with  me,  for  the  sake 
of  escaping  from  Brown;  for,  anyway,  I  woke  up 
from  a  sort  of  dream,  to  find  myself  walking  into  a 
summer-house  alone  with  Dad. 

"Don't  you  think/'  he  was  saying,  "that  you 
treated  Mr.  Winston  rather  rudely?" 


The  Lightning  Conductor  339 

"Rudely?"  I  repeated.  "How  has  he  treated  me, 
[  should  like  to  know?" 

"  If  you  really  would  like  to  know,"  returned  Dad, 
in  that  nice,  calming  way  he  has  which,  even  when 
you  are  ruffled  up,  makes  you  feel  like  a  kitty-cat 
being  stroked,  "I  don't  see,  girlie  dear,  that  you 
have  so  very  much  to  complain  of.  I've  been 
having  a  chat  with  him,  and  if  he  tells  the  truth,  he 
appears  to  have  served  you  pretty  well.  But 
perhaps  you  will  say  he  doesn't  tell  the  truth  as  to 
that?" 

"  Oh,  he  served  me  well  enough — too  well,"  said  I. 
"  But  let's  not  speak  of  him.  I  want  to  talk  about 
you." 

"There's  plenty  of  time  for  that,"  said  Dad.  "  I've 
come  to  stay — for  a  while.  Before  we  begin  on  me, 
let's  thrash  out  this  matter  of  Mr.  Winston." 

"  It  deserves  to  be  thrashed,"  I  remarked,  trying  to 
laugh.  But  I've  heard  things  that  sounded  more  like 
laughs  than  that.  I  hoped  Dad  didn't  notice  it  was 
wobbly. 

"He's  told  me  the  whole  story,"  went  on  Dad, 
"so  perhaps  I'm  in  a  position  to  judge  better  than 
you.  Women  are  supposed  to  have  no  abstract 
sense  of  justice,  but  I  thought  my  girl  was  different. 
You  hear  what  Winston  has  got  to  say  first,  and 
then  you  can  send  him  to  the  right-about  if  you 
please." 

"  I  don't  see  anything  abstract  in  that.  It's  purely 
personal,"  said  I.  "Mr.  Winston  can't  expect  me  to 
hear  him,  or  even  to  see  him,  again." 

"  He  hopes,  not  expects,  as  a  chap  feels  about  going 


340  The  Lightning  Conductor 

to  heaven,"  said  Dad.    "  I'll  fetch  him,  and  you  can 
get  it  over." 

"  Do  nothing  of  the  kind!"  I  exclaimed.  "  Let  him 
stay  with  his  mother." 

"I  guess  I'm  competent  to  entertain  his  mother 
?for  a  few  minutes,"  suggested  Dad.  "She's  a  very 
pleasant-looking  lady." 

I  would  have  stopped  him  if  I  could;  but  when  I 
saw  he  was  determined,  I  just  shut  my  lips  tight,  and 
let  him  go.  What  I  meant  to  do  was  to  whisk  out  as 
soon  as  his  back  was  turned,  so  that  when  Mr.  Win 
ston  should  come,  he  would  find  me  gone.  There 
was  no  danger  he  wouldn't  understand  why;  and  a 
decided  action  like  that  on  my  part  would  settle 
everything  for  the  future. 

But  as  I  got  to  the  door  I  saw  him,  not  six  feet 
distant.  He  must  either  have  been  on  the  way  to 
the  summer-house  when  Dad  left  me,  or  else  he'd 
been  waiting  close  by.  Anyhow,  evidently  he  and 
Dad  couldn't  have  said  two  words  to  each  other; 
there  hadn't  been  time;  and  there  was  Dad  marching 
off  as  if  to  find  and  "entertain"  Lady  Brighthelm- 
ston.  I  should  almost  have  had  to  push  past  Mr. 
Winston,  if  I'd  persisted  in  escaping,  which  would 
have  looked  childish,  so  quickly  I  resolved  to  stand 
my  ground— in  the  summer-house — and  face  it  out. 
My  heart  was  beating  so  fast  I  could  hardly  think, 
and  I  had  to  tell  myself  crossly,  with  a  sort  of  mental 
shake,  that  after  all  he  was  the  guilty  one,  not  I, 
before  I  could  catch  at  even  a  decent  amount  of 
savoir  faire. 

Naturally,  as  it  was  the  only  thing  to  be  said,  his 


The  Lightning  Conductor  341 

lips  asked  the  same  question  his  eyes  had  asked 
before.  "Can  you  forgive  me?" 

I  always  thought  Brown's  voice  one  of  the  nicest 
things  about  him,  unless  perhaps  his  eyes;  and  both 
were  at  their  very  nicest  now.  I  hadn't  realized, 
till  he  came  to  me,  how  much  I  should  want  to  for 
give  him.  I  did  want  to,  awfully,  but  I  felt  it  would 
never  do;  and  I  think  I  must  have  been  commendably 
dignified  as  I  answered:  "The  hardest  possible  thing 
for  a  woman  to  forgive  a  man  is  making  her  ridicu 
lous." 

"But  then,"  he  cut  in,  quite  boldly,  "I  don't  ask 
you  to  forgive  me  for  a  sin  I  haven't  committed, 
only  for  those  I  have." 

"You  have  made  me  ridiculous,"  I  insisted. 

"I  fancied  it  was  myself;  but  I  didn't  mind  that, 
or  anything  else  which  gave  me  a  chance  of  being 
near  you,  even  under  false  pretences.  It  is  for  deceiv 
ing  you  that  I  ask  to  be  forgiven.  I  lived  a  good  many 
lies  as  Brown,  but  honestly,  I  believe  I  never  told 
one.  Do  forgive  me.  I  sha'n't  be  able  to  bear  my 
life  if  you  don't." 

"I  can't  forgive  you,"  I  said  again. 

"Then  punish  me  first  and  forgive  me  afterwards 
— very  soon.  I  deserve  that  you  should  do  both." 

"  I  think  you  do  deserve  the  first,  but  I  don't  quite 
see  how  or  why  you  deserve  the  second." 

"  Because  I  worship  you,  and  would  rather  be  your 
servant  than  be  king  of  a  country  in  which  you  didn't 
live." 

"Oh!"  I  couldn't  say  another  word,  for  thinking 
of  Brown  being  in,  love  with  me,  and  there  being  no 


342  The  Lightning  Conductor 

reason  why  I  shouldn't  let  myself  love  him  too — 
except,  of  course,  one's  self-respect  after  all  that  had 
happened.  But  just  for  an  instant  I  didn't  think  about 
that  last  part;  and  I  was  so  surprised,  and  so  happy 
— or  so  shocked  and  so  unhappy  (I  couldn't  be  sure 
which;  only,  whatever  the  sensation  was,  it  was  verv 
violent),  that  I  was  speechless. 

Brown  took  advantage  of  that,  and  talked  a  great 
deal  more.  I  tried  to  look  away  from  him,  but  I 
simply  couldn't.  He  held  my  eyes,  and  after  he  had 
told  me  whole  chapters  about  his  thoughts  and 
feelings  since  the  very  first  day  of  our  meeting,  it 
occurred  to  me  that  he  was  holding  my  hands  too 
— both  of  them.  I  am  not  sure  he  hadn't  been 
doing  it  for  some  time  before  I  found  out,  but  it 
was  his  kissing  the  hands  which  brought  me  to 
myself. 

It  seemed  too  extraordinary  that  Brown  should  be 
doing  that — almost  as  if  I  were  dreaming.  And  to 
be  perfectly  frank  with  myself,  it  was  an  exquisite 
dream;  because  such  strange  things  can  happen  in 
dreams,  and  you  don't  seem  to  mind  a  bit.  Luckily, 
he  didn't  know  this ;  and  I  snatched  my  hands  away, 
exclaiming:  "Mr.  Winston!" 

"  Don't  call  me  that,"  he  begged.  "  Call  me  Brown." 

"But  you  are  not  Brown." 

"  I  love  you  just  as  much  as  when  I  was  Brown, 
and  more.  If  you  only  knew  what  thousands  of  times 
I  have  longed  to  tell  you,  and  the  heavenly  relief  it 
is  to  do  it  at  last!" 

"You  have  no  more  right  now.  Less,  even;  for 
Brown  seemed  honest." 


The  Lightning  Conductor  343 

"  If  Br*wn  had  forgotten  himself,  and — and  kissed 
the  hem  of  your  dress,  what  would  you  have  done?" 

"  I — don't  know,"  was  my  feeble  answer. 

"You  would  have  sent  him  away." 

"No — I  don't  think  I  could  have  done  that.  I — 
I  depended  on  Brown  so  much.  I  used — to  wonder 
how  I  should  ever  get  on  without  him." 

"Don't  get  on  without  him.  I'll  be  your  chauffeur 
all  my  days,  if  those  are  the  only  terms  on  which 
you'll  take  me  back.  But  are  there  no  other  terms? 
What  I  want  is — " 

"What?"  I  couldn't  resist  asking  when  he  paused. 

"Everything!" 

Something  in  his  face,  his  eyes,  his  voice — his 
whole  self,  I  suppose — carried  me  off  my  feet  into 
deep  water.  I  just  let  myself  go,  I  was  so  frightfully 
happy.  I  knew  now  that  I  had  been  in  love  with 
Brown  for  months  and  had  been  miserable  and  rest 
less  because  he  was — only  Brown. 

I  heard  myself  saying:  "I  do  forgive  you." 

"And  love  me — a  little?" 

"No;   not  a  little." 

Then  he  caught  me  in  his  arms,  though  at  any 
moment  some  one  might  have  passed  the  summer- 
house  door  and  seen  us.  He  didn't  think  of  that, 
apparently,  and  neither  did  I  at  the  time.  I  thought 
only  of  Brown — Brown — Brown.  There  was  nobody 
in  the  world  but  Brown. 

I  don't  think  I  precisely  said  in  so  many  words 
that  I  would  be  engaged  to  him,  though  he  may 
have  taken  that  for  granted  in  the  end;  and  if  I  did 
give  a  wrong  impression,  I  had  no  time  to  correct  it, 


344  The  Lightning  Conductor 

for  it  seemed  that  we  had  been  talking  about  the 
future  and  such  things  no  more  than  a  minute,  when 
Dad  came  sauntering  by  with  Lady  Brighthelmston. 

They  both  looked  at  us  as  if  they  expected  to  hear 
something  "extra  special,"  as  the  newsboys  say;  and 
I  gave  a  glance  at  Brown,  or  Jack,  or  whatever  I 
ought  to  call  him,  which  said,  "If  you  dare!" 

Having  been  forgiven  once,  I  suppose  he  thought 
it  would  be  wiser  not  to  tempt  Providence,  so  he  held 
his  peace,  and  we  all  talked  about  the  weather  and 
what  a  nice  garden-party  it  was. 

That  is  the  reason  why  I  still  have  the  thing  in  my 
own  hands.  If  I  read  this  over,  as  I  am  now  going 
to  do,  and  disapprove  of  mvself,  it  is  not  too  late  to 
change  my  mind. 

P.S.  I  have  read  it.  And  I  have  thought  things 
over. 

Molly  Randolph,  if  you  hadn't  forgiven  Brown,  you 
would  have  been  a  detestable  little  wretch,  and  you 
would  never  have  forgiven  yourself,  for  he  is  the  best 
ever — except  Dad. 

It  will  be  delicious  to  let  myself  love  him  as  much 
as  ever  I  like,  at  last — my  Lightning  Conductor! 


THE    END 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

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